 The market-place has nothing to sell
Left alone its awnings shiver
Wind whilstles through the wood
Fish teeth snapping in a river
Peaks puncture the sky
Like a child's icy toes
Dipped in a stream
That a few of us know
And the clouds just a ripple?
A shock from the impact?
Shadows on the streets
Look like veils at morning
Ice blots in the stone cracks
Where tears have fallen
Oil by the bucket feeds flares to the heavens
Offerings of incense, small bills and lemons
Drumbeats in the caves and hearbeats in the huts
Protectors unveiled for the first time in months
You find some best friends
We'll hold each other
And I'll turn the bells
I'll turn the bells
The storm clouds pass, and everything's for sale
The chattering of rapids, and the bartering of sunset
Beads crunch like bones, through fingers and knuckles
Poor hands pick cheap Quartz, in the quarries and cliff-ledge
A group of sandalwood trees, with clotted blood covered dark
The biker gangs smoking, on the edge of the lake
The smoke like white horses, a white-eyed mistake
There's spirits in the water, like photos in a box
They're torn by the current, and crushed by the rocks
You find some best friends
We'll hold each other
And I'll turn the bells
I'll turn the bells
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