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.