On an icy island north. In the woods beside the church. We can bury crimson lockets filled with dirt. And when the April thaw. Brings us out again. We can bless the arrows. And the sun won't stall. And the land will never fall. On virgin fields we'll skate. Stand by children we'll create. Like the arctic wind we spin. A windmill's rose into the threshing soul. You can't thresh the snow. When the snow is sending. There's no divine grove. You can see the blankets go. Everything I did was right. Everything I said was wrong. Now I'm waiting for the night. To bring the dawn. Into the only room where the fire's warm. Where we keep our vices warm. And it's all that's left. All that's left is vices torn