The Sundays. Folk Song. Zeneszám

Summer sky and a throat bone dry
And the fields are all gold
Dusty lane with a song in my brain
And it stoned me to my soul

I climb higher move towards
The fire, blaze sun

Silver trees and a whispering breeze
Are my sight and my sound
And the thought of heaven
Couldn?t drag me from the path
When I?m wandering here alone

I climb higher move towards
The fire, so blaze sun

Watch until it dies
Slow falling from the sky
Pale fading sun