Take my hand, my love
On sinews of air we tread
Aught but distance our guide
With no tempo to our gait
No endpoint drawn
Neither plot nor plan
By the thorns of a compass rose
We bound toward the horizon
Take my hand, my love
On sinews of air we tread
Aught but distance our guide
With no tempo to our gait
No endpoint drawn
Neither plot nor plan
By the thorns of a compass rose
We bound toward the horizon