Ghosts - James Vincent McMorrow

The moon holds the light

And the moon’s this spinning globe

Shedding light upon the road

The bird won’t fly

And a bird without its wings is a low and tragic thing

We are ghosts

We are ghosts amongst these hills

From the trees of velvet green

To the ground beneath our feet

We are ghosts

We are ghosts amongst these hills

Pressing out along the shore

Pressing out along the shore

The mountain song

Matters not the thoughts of thirds

Matters only to be heard

And though I’m gone

I will come again in Spring

When the harvest can begin

We are ghosts

We are ghosts amongst these hills

From the trees of velvet green

To the ground beneath our feet

We are ghosts

We are ghosts amongst these hills

Pressing out along the shore

Pressing out along the shore