The wind through trees is the waves on the sand and rain in the fields. Their concept of concussive sound is the spirit of the earth.

The purity of the white snow hills, the voice of the black dirt and rock is the soul of the world.

Just like an empty lust, you are the charge in my brain. Even in broken trust, I want to sing while in pain. I see the flashing lights, is it thunder or fame, cameras or lighting? It's the same in the rain.

Piece my heart with a flaming sword, tears from my soul fall as I sing to my Lord.

Warm the chill of my cold harbor, take my breath away like icy water.

Dive into the deep dark pools of the...