Days must be untangled
For years to be revealed
We’ve looked from every angle 
With nothing left concealed
In the winter she wants to be dancer
In springtime she wants to be a scribe
In summer she wants to be a painter
Come autumn the mother of a child
Where the edge of the hill 
Meets the end of the road
We make memories of gold
Our memories of gold
To have and to hold
Our memories of gold