Emptied hands of black hills, washed with gold
Wasted sun
That god is so sad and young
Sea is old, the sea is old
Is this over? Looking over, reaching over, rushing over
At least these scars are wounds that healed
Wasted sun
That god is so sad and young
Sea is old, the sea is old
Is this over? Looking over, reaching over, rushing over
At least these scars are wounds that healed