The moon holds the light 
And the moon's this spinning globe 
Shedding light upon the road 
The bird won't fly 
And a bird without its wings is a low and tragic thing 

We are ghosts 
We are ghosts amongst these hills 
From the trees of velvet green 
To the ground beneath our feet 
We are ghosts 
We are ghosts amongst these hills 
Pressing out along the shore 
Pressing out along the shore 

The mountain song 
Matters not the thoughts of thirds 
Matters only to be heard 
And though I'm gone 
I [bad word] again in Spring 
When the harvest can begin 

We are ghosts 
We are ghosts amongst these hills 
From the trees of velvet green 
To the ground beneath our feet 
We are ghosts 
We are ghosts amongst these hills 
Pressing out along the shore 
Pressing out along the shore