Orchard Gate - Wovenhand

At the orchard gate today

Was that tomorrow?

Istenem make a fire

Kiss your heart

Risha, Arabic for feather

In this way, my love

Whispers to me

Warm, beloved and still

This way, my love

Come to me

In a language of two hands

In this a strange poetry

She is turning, turning in

From all the temples of old

From all the holds

In which it’s stowed

Turning into gold

In his way through

A sacred dimension

Not by might, not by power, by his spirit

His loving intention

His loving intention

In this way, my love

Whispers to me

Warm, beloved and still

In this way, my love

Come to me

In a language of two hands

This a strange poetry

See the golden chariot wheel

It pitches down

Down to the bottom of the Red Sea deep

I see the end now entertaining thoughts of sleep

In this way, my love

Whispers to me

Warm, beloved and still

In this way, my love

Come to me

She is turning, she is turning in

In a language of two hands

She is turning in, she is turning

Turning into old