The ghost of the west was on the field, the grey and the green together. The noise of a distant farm machine out of the first light came. A tattered necklace of pechen trees on the southern side of the hill. A trace where the border runs between where marriage and newsboy fell. Easter here again, a time for the blind to see. Easter, surely now can all of your hearts free? Out of the port of Liverpool bound for the north of Ireland. The wash of the spring and horse tail waves the roll of the sea below. Easter here again, a time for the blind to see. Easter, surely now can all of your hearts free? Easter, surely now can all of your hearts free? Easter, surely now can all of your hearts free? Easter, surely now can all of your hearts free? Easter, surely now can all of your hearts free? Easter, surely now can all of your hearts free? Easter, surely now can all of your hearts free? Easter, surely now can all of your hearts free? Easter, surely now can all of your hearts free? Free, free, free.