DOWN IN THE VALLEY

xxx

Down in the valley, the valley so low

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow

Hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow;

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow.

sheet music here

MOSCOW

Behold the hustle and bustle in the streets of Moscow circa 1900's.

THE WALTZ WE WERE BORN FOR

xxx

I never knew them all, just hummed

and thrummed my fingers with the radio,

driving five hundred miles to Austin.

Her arms held all the songs I needed.

Our boots kept time with fiddles

and the charming sobs of blondes,

the whine of steel guitars

sliding us down in deer-hide chairs

when jukebox music was over.

Sad music’s on my mind tonight

in a jet high over Dallas, earphones

on channel five. A lonely singer,

dead, comes back to beg me,

swearing in my ears she’s mine,

rhymes set to music that make

her lies seem true. She’s gone

and others like her, leaving their songs

to haunt us. Letting down through clouds

I know who I’ll find waiting at the gate,

the same woman faithful to my arms

as she was those nights in Austin

when the world seemed like a jukebox,

our boots able to dance forever,

our pockets full of coins.

By Walt McDonald, 1934

WE'LL JOIN OUR HOUSES

xxx

My featherbed is deep and soft, and there I’ll lay you down,

I’ll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head a crown.

For you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord.

I’ll always keep you warm and safe, and guard you with my sword.

And how she smiled and how she laughed, the maiden of the tree.

She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me.

I’ll wear a gown of golden leaves, and bind my hair with grass,

But you can be my forest love, and me your forest lass.

taken from Arya's chapter on A Storm of Swords

Despite the fate of a lot of our most beloved characters, I'm still hopeful for this two to meet again in the future. Plus it will make true the statement above by King Robert that once was referring to Sansa and Joffrey.

TO THE MOON

The Bay of Naples at moonlit night by Ivan Aivazovsky

Art thou pale for weariness

     Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,

Wandering companionless

     Among the stars that have a different birth,

And ever changing, like a Joyless eye

     That finds no object worth its constancy?

By Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)