born in the sticky summer with hair of a gold-brown bushel and hands sun-spotted the days gently freckle your skin spin round as a falling leaflet sing loud for the harvest moon you love like the beaches do salt wind blowing full in your face heat wave but the crops keep growing eating peaches by the shaded pine i'm caught playing a banjo slow tune a dream i had in a field of white sand the yellow sun and the green sung reed song you sing with me on this sun-struck night
...of peaches and romance
The quiet lies - we don't need to talk about it anymore Don't need to figure out the truth Don't need to look inside our heads and in our hearts…
I was wrong.
Everytime someone died. color and breath, the fast unfurl of carbon away from death plants that rise and grow, strange citybomb beneath…