Buried with dirt on top of mine face Digging the grave, upburst of string lace; Dressed in a tunic, not from around She dances as a ghost, her soul is unbound.
Her hair is factual, she's not a dream A lover, an amour, of beautiful thing's; And weareth many ring's, her novel is wide Feather's float off her wing's, an angel and bride.
To me as to her, the feeling obliged She rode a white chariot, as one of the sky's; I told her lovely, do not cryeth She looked at mine view, tis she got excited.
Excitement burned hot, as sun in the day She broke me free, from the worms of the grave; And tis I was a slave, to the black hole of nothing She showed me a bright aura, knowing God was near coming...