At the orchard gate today
Was that tomorrow
Istenem
Make a fire
Kiss your heart
Risha
Arabic for feather

In this way my love
Whispers to me
Warm, beloved and still
In this way my love [bad word] to me

In a language of two hands
It is a strange poetry

She is turning
Turning in
From all the temples of old
From all the holds
In which its stowed
Turning into gold

In his way through
sacred dimension
Not by might
Nor by power
By his spirit
His loving intention
His loving intention

In this way my love
Whisper to me
Warm, beloved and still
In this way my love [bad word] to me

In a language of two hands
It is a strange poetry

See the golden chariot wheel
It glitters down
To the bottom of the red sea deep
I see the end now
Entertaining thoughts of sleep

In this way my love
Whisper to me
Warm, beloved and still
In this way my love [bad word] to me

She is turning
She is turning in
In the language of two hands 
She is turning in
She is turning
Turning into gold