Under dusty rags of clouds,
smoke hangs in the clearing,
setting sun in shrouds.
Hammer fat as sauce and stones,
the burning forge used by,
blacksmith casts no shadow,
and silence fills the sky.
Come close,
sun horse, a hundred years gone by,
the smith renews your silver shoes,
and once again you'll fly.
Each hundred years our white horse,
their night time journey makes,
and the blacksmith stands in readiness,
charmer or snake,
if you happen from that special path to wander on that day,
a camp you made in a leafy glade,
hear ancient whispers say.
Come close,
sun horse,
a hundred years gone by,
the smith renews your silver shoes,
and once again
you'll fly.
Your footprints still wash away,
come now white horse, come now.
Burn our sun
across the sky,
until the daylights go on.
White horse, go.
And do your cunning folkways hold any sway these days?
The ghost soul sings her secrets,
the ones she shouldn't tell,
and those who wait swing
on the gate between heaven and hell.
The white horse stamps in paces,
like a shuttle in a loom,
the blacksmith takes the coins placed in the stones round the tomb.
Come close,
sun horse, a hundred years gone by,
the smith renews your silver shoes,
and once again you'll fly.
Your footprints still wash away,
come now white horse, come now.
Burn our sun across the sky,
until the daylights go on.
Your footprints wash away,
come now white horse, come now.
Burn our sun across the sky,
until the daylights go on.
Daylights go on.
Come now white horse, come.
Fly.
Come now white horse, come.
And do your cunning folkways hold any sway these days?
And do your cunning folkways hold any sway these days?
And do your cunning folkways hold any sway these days?
And do your cunning folkways hold any sway these days?
Come
now white horse, come.
And do your cunning folkways hold any sway these days?
And do your cunning folkways hold any sway these days?
And do your cunning folkways hold any sway these days?