(Tempo: Moderate, with a driving but friendly acoustic guitar, featuring a fiddle and an occasional harmonica reminiscent of classic Americana/Folk Country.)
(Verse 1)
They say the road is long when you cross the high plains,
But then the Spanish Peaks rise up, washing out the rains.
You roll down the Purgatoire, where the river runs cold,
And you find a town richer than silver or gold.
The architecture tells you stories, etched in the stone,
Of wild west days past, on a trail of its own.
(Chorus)
This is Trinidad, CO, where the high mesa waits,
And history stands tall right outside the town gates.
The mountains are grand, yes, the vistas are wide,
But the heart of this place is the kindness inside.
It's where the History is Grand and the Hello is Local,
You'll hear the promise ring in every soft vocal.
(Verse 2)
The old brick facades hold the whispers of time,
From the coal camps and canyons to the geological climb.
The sun hits the Sangre de Cristos, a crimson red hue,
As the coffee shop opens, and the morning feels new.
You’re miles from the city, away from the speed,
Just finding the moments that your simple soul needs.
(Bridge)
The folks here remember your face, and your truck, and your name,
They'll ask how your day was, it's not part of a game.
It's rooted and real, beneath the blue sky,
The warmth of this town as the seasons roll by.
(Chorus)
This is Trinidad, CO, where the high mesa waits,
And history stands tall right outside the town gates.
The mountains are grand, yes, the vistas are wide,
But the heart of this place is the kindness inside.
It's where the History is Grand and the Hello is Local,
You'll hear the promise ring in every soft vocal.
(Outro - Fiddle plays a cheerful, fading refrain)
That local hello... in Trinidad, CO.
GypsyMoon
