These Mongol Plains

I swept down the Mongol Plains on a steed so true Synaesthesia is a right real bitch when all you hear is blue It's like a whistle on the Neva River back home in Petersburg But right here, all I taste is red, the color of the horns I heard Oh, on I ride, on Mongol Plains In the dark I climbed a hill and smelled purple on the wind Tomorrow there'll be heavy weather, I'll don my ibex skin It feels yellow, like the golden fields around Nizhny Novgorod But right now on the Mongol Plains, the horns are blaring red Oh, on I ride, on Mongol Plains Oh, on I ride, crimson-eyed My sorrow stains these Mongol Plains