Woven Hand Whistling Girl
A whistling girl
Among his flock of sheep
Lay breathing backward rest assured
Of Elijah and gods birds
It will fall to us
It will fall to us
Inside the home the folk pine grow
Where hearts are fire sparks are thrown
Is all that glitters
This terrible weakness
It falls to us
It falls to us
From his holy hill
By his perfect will
Through the open eyes
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
