At the orchard gate today
Was that tomorrow?
Istenem make a fire
Kiss your heart
Risha, Arabic for feather
In this way, my love
Whispers to me
Warm, beloved and still
This way, my love
Come to me
In a language of two hands
In this a strange poetry
She is turning, turning in
From all the temples of old
From all the holds
In which it's stowed
Turning into gold
In his way through
A sacred dimension
Not by might, not by power, by his spirit
His loving intention
His loving intention
In this way, my love
Whispers to me
Warm, beloved and still
In this way, my love
Come to me
In a language of two hands
This a strange poetry
See the golden chariot wheel
It pitches down
Down to the bottom of the Red Sea deep
I see the end now entertaining thoughts of sleep
In this way, my love
Whispers to me
Warm, beloved and still
In this way, my love
Come to me
She is turning, she is turning in
In a language of two hands
She is turning in, she is turning
Turning into old

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