As winter evenings stretch into the sun,
unsettled by the dying of the day
the traders kneel and fall to praying
breathlessly, we close our eyes and run.
The glory of the centuries undone,
laid waste beneath an endless summer sky.
We were never given wings to fly
so breathlessly, we close our eyes and run.
But even as the world is overcome,
towards some half-remembered melody,
across a field as green as memory,
breathlessly, we close our eyes and run.
As winter evenings stretch into the sun,
breathlessly, we close our eyes and run.
