Oh, when you're walking on creakin' woods of light
Every waking hour of the passing night
Taken by a scent of early dawn looking at you now
From a touch I hear the timbre of your blade
Earning soft and all the vessels of an animal so kind
Mind is spinning and my senses now, are turning into what
Into what?
Am I ill or have I finally found the pill
Simple remedy for days of long and empty whitewashed halls
Now you're calling out and panesthesia takes a hold on me
Irises of auburn, ringing from the nurse's eyes
And singing, as they pass me by
They sound like

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