Rains Of April Mournful Song by MichaelAnthony

MichaelAnthony's Comments:  I was listening to some recorded guitar playing I had done when I had visited my brother, heard a melody in there and then the lyrics came and by the evening the song was done!  It was one of those experiences where everything falls together kind of magically.  It seemed like an old folk tune...a style I don't usually write in...and I searched and found the Mudcat.

The rains of April, cold and long
Cried and wailed this mournful song:
The dead are where the dead belong
The dead you love cannot come home.

Then the storms of summer, bold and strong
Lashed at me with fiery tongue:
You hold your heart just like a dog
Who lay beside his master's plot.

"The perished are not dead," said I
With flowers and tombstones they survive
I've photographs above my bed
The songs of the fiddler are in my head
I burned her voice to gramophone
Though they're gone I say I'm not alone.

But the storms of summer called my lie
And told it to the Autumn sky
The August night did sing that song:
The dead you love cannot come home.

This pen is awkward in my old hand
Those of my kin now understand:
The rains of April cried a song:
The dead are where the dead belong

Yes the rains of April wailed the song
And learned it to the summer storm
Who told it to the autumn sky
The night of August, same refrain
I'll be no fool to hear the winter sing the same.

That bridge we built o'er Miner's Creek
That bridge today is old and weak
I pray my body not ye find
But just the winter's mournful siren:

The dead are where the dead belong
The dead you love cannot come home.