Fate Of Drowning
Blackbird Raum
Emptied hands of black hills, Washed with gold Wasted sun That God is so sad and young Sea is old, the sea is old Is this over? Looking over, reaching over, rushing over At least these scars are wounds that healed
Emptied hands of black hills, Washed with gold Wasted sun That God is so sad and young Sea is old, the sea is old Is this over? Looking over, reaching over, rushing over At least these scars are wounds that healed