Feb 2013
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.
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.
