The Wind Blows After Dark
And Then Goes My Heart
I Never Wanted This To Start
Forever Haunted By The Dark
The Wind Comes In
The Wind Comes In
Here He Comes For My Life
Here She Runs For The Knife
I'm Not The Type
To Tell Your Wife
The Wind Comes In
The Wind, Our Sln
The Wind Blows After Dark
When He Comes For My Heart
I Never Want This To Stop
And What Is Sorrow But To Knife The Wind
And What Is Pain But To Blind Our SkinMy Kantele
Truly they lie, they talk utter nonsense
Who say that music reckon that the kantele
Was fashioned by a god
Out of a great pike’s shoulders
From a water-dog’s hooked bones:
It was made from the grief
Moulded from sorrow
Its belly out of hard days
Its soundboard from endless woes
Its strings gatheret from torments
And its pegs from other ills
So it not play, will not rejoice at all
Music will not play to please
Give off the right sort of joy
For it was fashioned from cares
Moulded from sorrow.