Fan on the Grain Roof

[Кіріспе] [Куплет 1] The fan motor spat a blue-white spark Then quit beneath the grain I read the probe: a climbing line He said, “that gauge is wrong again” The wheat had held the day’s last heat The bin roof sweated rust I took the fuse and climbed the ladder Because the numbers could be trusted [Қайырма] Up on the roof, with the hot grain below One small fuse between us and the fire You called it a fault in a needle’s report I felt that whole tower climb higher I changed it by hand while the cold wind cut through Now the fan turns; let the long night move [Куплет 2] The hatch rim burned against my sleeve The motor casing shook I pulled the dead fuse from its teeth And checked the scorched-out hook “Probe’s gone bad,” you said again From the office far below Then air began to drag the heat away And the red line sank, slow [Қайырма] Up on the roof, with the hot grain below One small fuse between us and the fire You called it a fault in a needle’s report I felt that whole tower climb higher I changed it by hand while the cold wind cut through Now the fan turns; let the long night move [Guitar solo] [Қайырма] Up on the roof, with the hot grain below One small fuse between us and the fire You called it a fault in a needle’s report I felt that whole tower climb higher I changed it by hand while the cold wind cut through Now the fan turns; let the long night move [Аутро] The probe held true till morning came The wheat stayed cool beneath the beams You signed the log beside my name And watched the gauge fall clean