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• Artiste: Paris Paloma
• Titre: His Land
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I smelt smoke On the wheezing of the wind when I awoke A pyre of memory Some fly-tipped treasury Out there burning slow Dark-soaked fields And the snuffling wet noses at my heels Suddenly hackles raise At the crackling of the blaze Out there burning slow And sometimes I catch him With his axe in The shadow So secretive and private But I'm breathing in his life when He's out there burning slow What a hoard It should be wild, it should be where wanderers walk That hidden wood of green The lake that he gatekeeps Yet I know not what for I would tread Build a fire and make the forest floor my bed I would forage for my meal And in doing start to heal But instead All the time I covet What he covers By the hedgerow So secretive and private But I'm breathing in his life when He's out there burning slow And sometimes I catch him With his axe in The shadow So secretive and private But I'm breathing in his life when He's out there burning slow