We search for everything. Keeping what we would win. Orchids or tiny flowers. Wooden huts or ivory towers. Centuries or hours. . Dark are the winter days. Holy in many ways. Vaults of time
We search for everything. Keeping what we would win. Orchids or tiny flowers. Wooden huts or ivory towers. Centuries or hours. . Dark are the winter days. Holy in many ways. Vaults of time
We search for everything. Keeping what we would win. Orchids or tiny flowers. Wooden huts or ivory towers. Centuries or hours. . Dark are the winter days. Holy in many ways. Vaults of time
We search for everything. Keeping what we would win. Orchids or tiny flowers. Wooden huts or ivory towers. Centuries or hours Dark are the winter days. Holy in many ways. Vaults of time
. We can live in huts made out of grass. we can greet father time as he walks pass. we can press feet into the dirt. a little mud, no, it wouldn't hurt. Ba da da ba da ba. Let's pack our bags. and lie on
can come through. We can live in huts made out of grass. we can greet father time as he walks pass. we can press our feet into the dirt. a little mud, no, it wouldn't hurt. Ba da da ba da ba. Let's pack
="32028">And I can see those fighter planes. Across the mud huts where the children sleep. Through the alleys of a quiet city street. You take the staircase to the first floor. Turn the key and
="32028">And I can see those fighter planes. Across the mud huts where the children sleep. Through the alleys of a quiet city street. You take the staircase to the first floor. Turn the key and
Rousseau walks on trumpet paths. Safaris to the heart of all that jazz. Through I bars and girders, through wires and pipes. The mathematic circuits of the modern nights Through huts, through
. Slapping them down. One hundred, two hundred. And I can see those fighter planes. And I can see those fighter planes. Across the mud huts where the children sleep. Through the alleys of a quiet city street
