Sundays (The)
Folk Song
Summer sky and a throat bone dry and the fields are all gold.
Dusty lane with a song in my brain and it stoned me to my soul.
I climb higher move towards the fire, blazing sun. Silver trees and a whispering breeze are my sight and my sound.
The thought of heaven couldn't drag me from the path when I'm wandering here alone. I climb higher move towards the fire, so blazing sun.
Watch until it dies slow falling from the sky, pale fading sun.
From Letras Mania