Proud, brave are centuries under piles of stones
Their hearts speak thousands of years
When you say something
They feel you're lonely, you're confused
Ripped out of the roots
Out of the ground
Sirens wait in line
They sing to your ancestors
And the prediction [bad word] [bad word] They'll spin the sun
And lend the hand to fallen
I promised you
When I was flying above the ocean
I'll back in the spring with the first sign
In the arms of a giant