[Verse 1] The ink is mostly water and the paper’s damp with rot I’m writing on a hard-tack box from a muddy, frozen plot. They say the Union’s healing, Martha, but I only see the tears In the fabric of the boys I’ve known for all these heavy years. My hands are stained a color that the soap won't ever touch And I’m leaning on a sapling branch that serves me as a clutch. [Chorus] The blue wool is heavy and the winter’s getting long There’s a hole in every hollow where there used to be a song. I sent my heart to Georgia, but it’s buried in the clay And the man you loved in April has been traded all away. Yeah, the bugle’s getting quiet, and the fire’s burning low. [Verse 2] We crossed a creek at midday where the water ran a rust And we traded off our dignity for a mouthful of the dust. I saw a boy from Salem—he was holding in his breath Just trying to negotiate a bargain with his death. I took his watch and Bible, and I promised him I’d write But the words are tangled in my head and won't come out tonight. [Chorus] The blue wool is heavy and the winter’s getting long There’s a hole in every hollow where there used to be a song. I sent my heart to Georgia, but it’s buried in the clay And the man you loved in April has been traded all away. Yeah, the bugle’s getting quiet, and the fire’s burning low. [Bridge] (Tempo slows, a mournful cello enters) Don’t keep the porch-light burning, don't waste the kerosene I’ve seen things that a Christian man should never have to see. The valley's full of shadows now, and I am one of them Just a tattered scrap of fabric hanging from a broken stem. [Verse 3] The picket line is shaking and I hear the minié balls Whistling through the cedars like a thousand dying calls. This letter’s going in my vest, tucked right against my skin In case the Johnnies break the line and let the darkness in. If a stranger knocks upon your door with a bundle in his hand Just know I’m finally resting in a quiet patch of land. [Chorus] The blue wool is heavy and the winter’s getting long There’s a hole in every hollow where there used to be a song. I sent my heart to Georgia, but it’s buried in the clay And the man you loved in April has been traded all away. Yeah, the bugle’s getting quiet, and the fire’s burning low. [Outro] (Banjo stops abruptly) (A faint, shaky breath) The ink is running... The line is thin... Oh, Martha... I'm cold. (Total silence)

Trade My Soul for April