Waiting here Sunday, lost
my growing need caught in the horizon,
I found this garden
caught in the circle of the past:
fried paradise.
Heat is running out into night
(fruit is but a pilgrimage)
I shall love all the thorns that bleed.
my growing need caught in the horizon,
I found this garden
caught in the circle of the past:
fried paradise.
Heat is running out into night
(fruit is but a pilgrimage)
I shall love all the thorns that bleed.