They are tearing up the old road again.
The road we built
with sweat and blood
and paved in dreams of love.
Old man Grady died there.
Fell off the steep ridge cliff
into a mad white torrent river
clutching his pick-axe firmly.
For three days we stopped work.
His wife still visits every year
throwing colourful fresh flowers
from her lonely summer garden.
Back then we worked the mules.
And at the end of every day
the men would gather
with whiskey bottles and rye.
Women would bring cheese and bread.
We laughed and praised the road.
God would smile upon us.
Before the road
we could never get across
after the hard spring rains.
When the winter snow dropped
we were an isolated island.
No one would dare the mountain.
Every six months
we would haul our goods to town
selling our animal skins and crops.
We kept the children happy.
I hear the bulldozers coming now.
Our love will soon be paved over.
The women and children are crying.
They hit a silver vein
and the mining company is bringing
their bankers and lawyers.
Our love has been bought and sold.
They are tearing up the road again.
The road we paved
with dreams of love.