I cannot sing the old songs I sang long years ago, For heart and voice would fail me, And foolish tears would flow

Everyone in my family sang, and we would always sing these songs.

died many years ago, but (they) just weren't buried.

I sing really well, my friends say. I don't like my voice, but I sang on stage during the Sahara awards a few years ago, so I don't mind singing.

All I know: I could only encounter you, my oasis, coming out of a desert. Deserted myself. This is all right. My futureless and solitary self. When suddenly I hear the voice of the springs--Right away you made me want to sing. To cry. Then to drink. But after the desert, the merest trickle of water sounds like a storm. And ever since, Promethea's every murmur shakes my life like an earthquake. I was asleep. I was not thirsty. It would have been possible for me not to hear the first three tears. Ever since I never sleep. I listen.

I looked down, my heart started beating really fast and I didn't know what to do next. I didn't know if I should sneak over to them and tell them, which I did, and then we snuck over here.