The fields drop far below, from where earth touches sky,
Beneath the olive trees and Mount Gilboa…
At eve, the valley’s splendor hits your eye,
The likes of which you’ve never seen before.

It’s not the same old house now, it’s not the same old valley,
You’re gone and never can return again.
The path, the boulevard, a skyward eagle tarries,
And yet the wheat still grows again.

And from the bitter earth, new neighborhoods will bloom,
A boy upon the grass, next to his puppy lies…
The nights descend upon a well-lit room,    
On those within, and thoughts locked up inside.

It’s not the same old house now, it’s not the same old valley,
You’re gone and never can return again.
The path, the boulevard, a skyward eagle tarries,
And yet the wheat still grows again.

And everything that was, perhaps will ever be,
The rising and the setting of the sun…
And songs are always sung, but can they speak
The vastness of the loss and all the love.

It is the same old house now, yes it’s the same old valley,
But you — they never can return again.
And can it be, how can it be, how through Time’s endless tally,
Somehow the wheat still grows again.