The Barn is a folk-country project, blending the murder ballads of Appalachian Karma and the Texan spirit of River Presley. 


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The Barn

The clouds of my solitude under a pillow of cotton
The bed is still cold but i feel the light out.
Outside a pine, a nightingale is singing 
And the sun is rising on the barn of their hearts

She's fragile like a blue drop blooming in the morning
Hanging to the very pale webs of immortal spiders 
In every corner, there is poison, there are strings ; 
There is also black water, bad seeds and dead flowers. 

Her sacred skin is purple like an eternal moonlight
That covers the brown trees of a peacefull landscape
The burnt grass is running with horses and a flight
Of crying ravens draws the horizon's shape. 

The wind is blowing on the last flame of the mournful night,
The fire stayed alive during hours in the fight. 
The smoke is cold but she still hides the ashes
Of nothing but a lifetime of love and evil tendencies.

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