Hypnotized by the incoming tides
We climbed hills until we could get high
watching in fear the old yellow ice melt
The crash of the waves below we felt
Skeptics said it would never come close to reaching
For every tragedy, the spokesman an excuse for each
We held on for dear life and a survival fulfilled
on our desperate mission almost washed off the hill
Our sassy illusions of progress
holding each other's hands in prayer bless
Believers and skeptics as on teh yellow ice
No blame just rush, up the hill that looked the highest
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário