Moved by the wind or the flowing of water
Grinding of corn, after dark
A meeting place for many in days long ago
None of them left, but in ruins or display
The water still flows, but passes them by
even restored, their wheels stand still
Not now do the villagers need their grinding done here
Far off machines supply all that they need
Only approved would they be allowed
If not, their stones to be broken
What more, the distilling of spirits
The water of life, from the black pot
Suddenly illegal, well, who is to stop
The still by the stream
In the back of the house
Don't breathe one word
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