He is not a weatherman, but his bride lies with the land, and she will whisper to him,
I'll be dressing up in snow, cloaked in echo, it's almost as if only nature knows how to bring his wife to life and breathe her into form.
One more look from her eyes.
One more look, can you paint her back to life?
He knows every moor and mound, every curve of every hill, the shoulder of the mound.
He knows every moor and mound, every curve of every hill, the shoulder of the mound.
Where they watched a thousand dawns.
One more look from her eyes.
One more look, can you paint her back to life?
He knows every moor and mound, and she will whisper to him,

One more look from her eyes.

One more look from her eyes.
One more look from her eyes.
One more look from her eyes.
One more look from her eyes.
One more look from her eyes.
One more look from her eyes.
One more look from her eyes.
One more look from her eyes.
She's wrapped in Viennese green
He is not a weatherman
But his bride lies with the land
And she will whisper to him
I'll be dressing up in snow
Clothed in echo, it's almost
As if only nature knows
How to paint his wife to life
With every season's tone
Huamulu
From her eyes
Huamulu
From her eyes
Huamulu
From her eyes
Huamulu
From her eyes
Huamulu
From her eyes
Huamulu
From her eyes

From her eyes
From her eyes



Puanhulu, can you paint it back to life?