الكلمات الأصلية
ENالترجمة غير متاحة بعد. نعرض الكلمات الأصلية.
Every blade of grass
Sings for him alone
Forming a chorus
With all those that drink
The black pollen and from twisted yellow roots
The thousand tiny flowers that wind around his throne
Round his throne
We spend our lives pointed at the sky
We spend our lives as antennae
