on an icy island in north in the woods beside the church we can bury crimson lockets filled with dirt and when the april thaw brings us out again we can bless the arrows and the sun won t stall and the land will never fall on virgin fields we ll skate stand by children we ll create like the arctic wind we spin a windmill s rose into the threshing soul you can t thresh the snow when the snow is sending there s no divine grove you can see the blankets go everything i did was right everything i said was wrong now i m waiting for the night to bring the dawn into the only room where the fire s warm where we keep our vices warm and it s all that s left all that s left is vices torn