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Woven Hand - Whistling Girl | Текст песни

A whistling girl among his flock of sheep
In the flood of-?-
Lay breathing backward rest assured
Of Elijah and god's birds.

It will fall to us.

Inside the home the folk pine grow
Where hearts are fire, sparks are thrown.
It is all that glitters,
This terrible weakness.

And it falls to us
From his holy hill
By his perfect will.

Through the open wound of his soul tonight,
His yolk is easy and his burden light.
Kiss the sun lest he be angry
And you perish in the way.

The rivers of the sky are dry,
A roll up like a scroll.
Down below we tend to the forgetting,
Forgetting what we know.
The sun slips from your shoulder
As you enter in the wood
Without thought of thorns,
Without thought of thorns.

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