Mountains of molehills. A grapevine in my ear, spots on the tiger. While the townspeople gather to hear. While the nests in my hands starve for rest. .
Temo que al oscurecer vuelva a recordar, que sin ti. Esperar es matar el fuego, que por ti tengo en mi pecho. Y en mi esta la risa falsa, en vez de empezar a llorar.
I hear a voice calling out. I hear a voice in this wilderness. Where darkness has reigned for so long. Ground is being taken. . The trumpet sounds. And Your glory touches the ground.