
On, we yearn to fly,
our pasts are a bit blurry;
rain drops on windows.

On, we yearn to fly,
our pasts are a bit blurry;
rain drops on windows.

Dreaming of the skies
we run amongst giant trees
felling them for gains.

Unseasonal growth
bringing unsavoury looks
cold weather chile

Small town existence
the silence of the morning
echoes through the fog.