James Vincent Mcmorrow - Ghosts

The moon holds the light And the moon's this spinning globe Shedding light upon the road The bird won't fly And a bird without its wings is a low and tragic thing We are ghosts We are ghosts amongst these hills From the trees of velvet green To the ground beneath our feet We are ghosts We are ghosts amongst these hills Pressing out along the shore Pressing out along the shore The mountain song Matters not the thoughts of thirds Matters only to be heard And though I'm gone I will come again in Spring When the harvest can begin We are ghosts We are ghosts amongst these hills From the trees of velvet green To the ground beneath our feet We are ghosts We are ghosts amongst these hills Pressing out along the shore Pressing out along the shore