There's nothing for your comfort in the place where I was born Someone's got the roses 'cause my people got the thorns; My people are the poor ones, their country made of stones Their wealth is in persistence, in stories and in bones and one green hill, one green hill one far green hill we carry everywhere The tide must have a turning, the wind must have a change Children go to cities where the stars look strange And memory's a winding path, shining in the rain To places where we parted and we shall not meet again on one green hill, one green hill one far green hill we carry everywhere And somewhere in the story, it came as no surprise One time, for all time, the rain got in my eyes… It might he tears of laughter, it might be tears of rage You hate it and you love it and it rattles at your cage My people are survivors, living in the cracks Whatever bad luck hands them, they keep on coming back to one green hill, one green hill one far green hill we carry everywhere
