Exile

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.

Course:
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.

Course

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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