Walls aren't crumbling here, nor sidewalks.
Only my body onto bedsheets
while sparrows cry elegies during summer's funeral procession.
Though I find some thing's sacred about Canadian northern lights,
I can't help but think of the land of the glass pinecones
and the sound of your voice,
an accent I still can't place.
Only my body onto bedsheets
while sparrows cry elegies during summer's funeral procession.
Though I find some thing's sacred about Canadian northern lights,
I can't help but think of the land of the glass pinecones
and the sound of your voice,
an accent I still can't place.
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