The yellow hills, channel rain,
Bound for the sea, coming back again.
Landscapes kiss on a rushing sound,
There's a hundred men trying to take us down.
Music on the left hand, money on the right,
I'm a battlefield in the morning light,
Where falls the sun on the chestnut ground,
I lost my soul in the heavy crowd.
There's a hundred men in a hundred rooms,
In a hundred towns trying to take us down.
Following the low sun's distant roar,
Summer will be mine forever more,
Dark-bellied trout will you take me where,
I am bound by a single hair.
Seven thousand weary hearts adrift,
But the boat's got a hole and the sail's ripped.
At night, we hear, the whale sound,
There's a hundred men trying to take him down.
Fresh water weakens in the tide,
My love is salt and I cannot dive.
My love is salt and I cannot dive,
And I'm bound to the rhythm of a losing time.
Freshwater salt.

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