Cold as the northern winds,
in December mornings.
Cold is the cry that rings,
from this far distant shove.

Winter has come too late.
Too close beside me.
How can I chase away
all these fears deep inside.

I’ll wait the singns to come.
I’ll find a way.
I will wait the time to come.
I’ll find a way home.

My light shall be the moon
and my path – the ocean.
My guide – the morning star,
as I sail home to you.


Who then can warm my soul?
Who can quell my passion?
Out of these dreams – a boat.
I will sail home to you.

Posted in Enya and tagged , , , , .

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