These Walls

They built up strong foundations
for a house they made a home,
from stones they carved out of the mountainside.
They filled it with a family,
with noise they fueled the fire,
a haven that was safe from war and life.
And the chapel bells rang out for all the miners and their kin.
If only they could see the state I'm in.
As I'm peeling back the paper,
Layer upon layer,
Stories are still hanging in the air.
And they speak to me of wonder,
The struggle of it all,
Thinking of the ones that went before,
And it's all here in these walls.
The village streets were empty,
As the snow, it raged outside.
The winter days of 1917.
The house fell sadly silent.
Another missing boy.
We'll never know the horrors that he's seen
And the chapel bells rang out for all the soliders and their kin.
If only they could see the state I'm in.
As I'm peeling back the paper,
Layer upon layer,
Stories are still hanging in the air.
And they speak to me of sorrow,
The ruin of it all,
Thinking of the ones that went before,
And it's all here in these walls.
The builders, long forgotten.
Old occupants, unknown.
But this house is still a home.
I'm standing in the doorway with a paintbrush in my hand,
Trying to make some sweet sense of this place.
The stairs, they may be broken,
And the carpet's wearing thin,
But a beating heart and soul still remains.
And though the chapel bells no longer ring
And the mine, it makes no sound,
This little house will soon be singing out.
As I'm peeling back the paper,
Layer upon layer,
Stories are still hanging in the air.
And they speak to me of wonder,
The wisdom of it all,
Thinking of the ones that went before,
And it's all here in these walls.
It's all here in these walls.