How d'you suppose we get on like this-
fleshed hot days, locked leveled night And theirs the
one thing that seems to make it worth bearing.
God's whisper-the breeze.
And mostly all I am is tired resevouir,
And mostly all I am is tired resevouir,
with little to inlets or breakthroughs.
And wherever this goes I hope-
And wherever this goes I hope-
it falls quietly and stands with embraced fervant pride.
This is our soil. And the days-
This is our soil. And the days-
pass and the night barely stays.
Who am I in all this?
I am everything.
I am everything.
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