Let The Slave (Incorporating The Price Of Experience) accords par 
Mike Westbrook 
N/A
Tonalité : A minor•
Intro 1
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Verse 1
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Let the slave, grinding at the mill,
run out into the fields.
Let him look up into the heavens
and laugh in the bright air.
Let the enchained soul
shut up in darkness and in sighing
Whose face has never seen a smile
in thirty weary years
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Rise and look out!
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His chains are loose,
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his dungeon doors are open
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And let his wife and children return
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from the oppressor's scourge
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They look behind at every step
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And believe it is a dream
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Singing the sun has left
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its blackness and found
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The fresher morning
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And the fair moon
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Re joices in a
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clear and cloudless night
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For em pire is no more,
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and now
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The lion and wolf shall cease
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For everything that lives is holy
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For everything that lives is holy,
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for everything that lives is holy,
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for everything that lives is holy.
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Interlude 1
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Verse 2
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What is the price of experience?
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To men buy it for a song,
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or wisdom for a dance in the street.
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No, it is bought with the price
of all that man hath,
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his house, his wife, his children.
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Wisdom is sold in the desolate
market
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where none come to buy,
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And in the withered field
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where the farmer ploughs
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for bread in vain.
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It is an easy thing to triumph
in the summer sun
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and in the vintage,
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and to sing on the wagon loaded with corn.
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It is an easy thing to talk of
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patience to the af flicted,
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to speak laws of prudence
to the houseless wanderer,
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to listen to the hungry raven's cry
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in wintry season, when the red
Their blood is filled with wine
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an d with the marrow of lambs.
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It is an easy thing to laugh at
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wrathful elements.
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To hear a dog howl at the wintry door,
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the ox and the slaughterhouse moan.
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To see a god on every wind
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and a blessing in every blast.
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To hear sounds of love
in the thunderstorm
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that des troys our enemy's house.
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To rejoice in the blight
that covers his field
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and the sickness that cuts
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off his children.
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While our olive and vine
sing and laugh round our door.
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And our children bring fruit
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and flowers.
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Then the groan and the doler
are quite forgotten.
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And the slave grinding at the mill.
And the captive in chains
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and the poor in prison.
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and the soldier in the
field
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where the shattered bone
has laid him groaning among
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the happier dead.
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It is an easy thing to rejoice
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in the tents of prosperity.
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Thus would I sing and thus rejoice,
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but it is not so with me.
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Ah... Ah...
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Ah...
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Ah...
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Thank
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