How chill is morning, how cold its melody. On a season of withering, when time stands still I listened and the wind spoke to me, I heard the woods
[Instrumental]
Still Holding on to a memory (of a dream) Clung to a ghost of the past, I am entangled in a maze (of the self) With no way out ...Alive Tired of
In the woods not far from here, stands an age old dead tree On a meadow once green, nothing grows now They used to hang people from this oak, or so
The rain pours down with pain, dampening the straws of hay Flowing down my face, mingling with tears Tears of despair and rage, years of emptiness
