Black flies on the windowsill, we are, we are, we are to know.
Winter's stole, summer's thrilled, and the river's cracked and cold.
See, the sky is no man's land, a dark and plumbed estate.
Hope your needs are humbling, not a fox found in your play.
No man is an island, or these are known.
But can't you see oh, oh maybe you were the ocean when I was just a stone.
Black flies on the windowsill, we are, we are, we are to know.
Comfort came against my will, and every story must grow.
Still I'll be a traveler, a gypsy's reigns to face, but the road is here, with that fool found in your place.
No man is an island, or these are known.
But can't you see oh, oh maybe you were the ocean when I was just a stone.
No man is an island, or these are known.
But can't you see oh, oh maybe you were the ocean when I was just a stone.
So here we are.
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.
You
