Every night without a light or brightly shining love,
silver trees and darkened leaves dot the sky above.
As the yellow moon to the darkest night,
it turns to a raging fire,
the road it thins and the darkness spins
to the voices in the choir.

I dream of horses and their kin,
against a lovely night.
I dream of sand and sky and sin,
against the pale moonlight.

And everyone that feels at all,
has got something to say.
About the wayward sovereign ways,
of every wild day.