- cifra
Were we the hammer
Were we the powder
Were we the cold evening air
Were we the wild geese
Were we the tall trees
Were we the shot in the air
And the background noise
Goes fading now
No sounds, just the quiver of a lip
Even the moon’s half holding back
Look, we’re falling so easy
Like the rain in the dirty south
Justified for the fighting
Were we living in the lion’s mouth
And the background noise
Goes fading out
No sounds, just the quiver of a lip
Even the moon’s half holding out
