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Description
The loner falls asleep on the hills,
Where moon-nymphs dance and swirl,
And lights of night that pour down the rocks,
Towards the black silhouette flow.
So they sing, to hug him, to protect him,
From forget, so the wilted meadow-grass,
Won’t cover him, won’t blight him,
Won’t hide him and forget him.

The sparrows sleep in the thorns,
In the blood of the eon they stretch,
While memories of one who leys on hills,
Don’t swirl any more, and die alone.
Soft winds rip in the night,
They sting and scorch like salted wounds,
They sting even the one who leys,
Alone on hills, left to mourn.

Like an old wolf he dragged himself up,
And laid down on the fibers of the moon,
Laid and left himself on the hills,
To sleep forever unforgotten.
And even though he doesn’t feel no more,
The winds scorch and burn him,
And even though he wouldn’t feel a knife-stab,
They hurt and make him shed his tears off.

Description
The loner falls asleep on the hills,
Where moon-nymphs dance and swirl,
And lights of night that pour down the rocks,
Towards the black silhouette flow.
So they sing, to hug him, to protect him,
From forget, so the wilted meadow-grass,
Won’t cover him, won’t blight him,
Won’t hide him and forget him.

The sparrows sleep in the thorns,
In the blood of the eon they stretch,
While memories of one who leys on hills,
Don’t swirl any more, and die alone.
Soft winds rip in the night,
They sting and scorch like salted wounds,
They sting even the one who leys,
Alone on hills, left to mourn.

Like an old wolf he dragged himself up,
And laid down on the fibers of the moon,
Laid and left himself on the hills,
To sleep forever unforgotten.
And even though he doesn’t feel no more,
The winds scorch and burn him,
And even though he wouldn’t feel a knife-stab,
They hurt and make him shed his tears off.