Overland, above the dark seas, wild refugees flee the seasons. Drifting beyond the nightclouds in the wake of their guiding star.

There he goes the famous gander. Eating fog, dancing with witches. The here goes the famous old gander who longed to leave.

If you hear the sound of our voices through the busy murmur of the earth. You will know the meaning of our words praying for spring to the ether.

Night and day the travellers fly. (Winter and spring have their reasons). Sailing through sunrise and setting wild wind and through steel blue air.

Here [bad word]  the highest gander. Eating fog, dancing with the witches. Here [bad word]  the famous old gander who longed to leave.

We don't feel the warmth of your breath, through the icy edges of the earth. We don't hear the rhythms of your call signalling the spring in the ether.