'Ere the wind is short of breath, Call me home. Call me to places you want me to see. Let us join forces, break our inertia, See new places. 'Ere the wind is short of breath, Call me home.
Look down, Look at the time. It's racing through the depths of its mane. Like the rustle of the leaves The gusts of wind sweep away the previous moment The streamlined breeze is a clairvoyant. The prized strings that the spindle wove Are slipping out of hand, Chasing granular data That lies embedded within them.