The Poet

She'll follow me through the evergreen and pull me out to sea We will fall from this burning road and pass to the northern winds Burnt leaves cover you we're running through fields of red my ear down to this ground I’m watching the trees confess Her hands were lost they were tuning black you'll walk with her even after that and you’re laying down with these hands of the poet I see the smoke in the air just a writer's passing glance And with clouded eyes the poet, she hides Burnt leaves cover you we're running through fields of red I know you won’t stay for too long now Her hands were lost they were tuning black you'll walk with her even after that and you sat down waiting with these hands of the poet These hands of the poet These hands of the poet These hands these hands Of the poet