4 acessos
I watch a young boy with a bag of stones
In a car, I know that I dont own
Its well past three and you phone for me
To come and trace back the road
I know this road it smells like storm
And as far as I know its not home
The walk it leads, through cherry trees
To the holy dark thats at your door
Its happening
I watch anxious as you sort through skin
And Im firmly pressed against the wall
You crawl on the floor to a bag of stones
And as far as I know this is home
Its happening