The burning fire, neith all the words we 'er spoke,
And the thrumming of the trees, that we mistook ,
The ports are cold round here my love,
I'm all alone at the boundary.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 4:16 AM UTC
The burning fire, neith all the words we 'er spoke,
And the thrumming of the trees, that we mistook ,
The ports are cold round here my love,
I'm all alone at the boundary.
A verse to a song a never finished writing. Maybe I will one day.
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