Whistling Girl - Wovenhand

A whistling girl

Among his flock of sheep

In a flow of words

Lay breathing backward rest assured

Of Elijah and God’s birds

It will fall to us

It will fall to us

Inside the home the folk pine grow

Where hearts are fire sparks are thrown

It is all that glitters

This terrible weakness

It falls to us

It falls to us

From his holy hill

And it falls to us

Yes it falls to us

By his perfect will

Through the open windows of the soul tonight

His yoke is easy and his burden light

Kiss the sun lest he be angry

And you perish in the way

The rivers of the sky are dry

And rolled up like a scroll

Down below we tend to the forgetting

Forgetting what we know

The sun slips from your shoulder

As you enter in the wood

Without thought of thorns

Without thought of thorns

And it falls to us

It falls to us

From his holy hill

It will falls to us

Yes it falls to us

By his perfect will

Through the open windows of your soul tonight

His yoke is easy and his burden light

Kiss the sun lest he be angry

And you perish in the way