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作词 : Irglova, Marketa |
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作曲 : Irglova, Marketa |
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Clouds descend on grass grown wild, |
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Tall and grand, lush in hand. |
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They bend in air as man in prayer. |
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I’m weaving through, trying to get to you. |
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I’m running past birds of dawn, |
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They sing like heaven, they’re leading on. |
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Yet I don’t see slow motioned wings, |
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Like gold in sun, how it could be won. |
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White as snow silk-feathered doves. |
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Eternal glow, they easily know. |
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That life is grand in all its shapes, |
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whether it gives, whether it takes. |
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That I am you, you are me, and |
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Loving grace can set us free, |
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From sprinting far, above, beyond, |
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Being our own strong magic wand. |
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I’m pushing through, though knowing this, |
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Thinking it all falls behind the next abyss, |
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I’ll get there soon and dwell there some, |
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Till it’s time for the next cloud to come. |
