Picture this:
Its almost the wee small hours of the morning, and she’s still up. Sitting in her cold bed on this blistering cold night. Outside it's mercury falling, the snow is almost knee height, but by the morning it will be twice that, at least, and the hounds of winter they howl deep in the night, howling like the wolf, hungry, on and on till the crack of down. Inside though, its quiet and worm, safe as houses, smooth like mothers milk somebody said. The lady of our story is still in bed, sitting up, looking with eyes full of wonder at something in her hands, its a small parcel of a lump, a lump that just a few hours ago was not there. she looks at it not knowing what to do, with it, how to handle such a predicament, what should she do? The cold, the hunger, and as she is in her wonderment, the silence of the house is violated by a loud shriek, its the new born baby, her baby, in her arms, she looks at it with eyes full of love and devotion, "You look like your father" she says, and then, it all makes sense, it makes perfect sense to her, she knows what to do, it's all going to be okay, and then she start to sing:
Black is the color of my true love's hair
His face so soft and wondrous fair
The purest eyes
And the strongest hands
I love the ground on where he stands
I love the ground on where he stands
Black is the color of my true love's hair
Of my true love's hair
Of my true love's hair
Oh I love my love
And well he knows
Yes, I love the ground on where he goes
And still I hope
That the time will come
When he and I will be as one
When he and I will be as one
So black is the color of my true love's hair
Black is the color of my true love's hair
Black is the color of my true love's hair
