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Folk Song

The Sundays

Summer sky and a throat bone dry
And the fields are all gold
Dusty lane with a song in my brain
And it stoned me to my soul

I climb higher move towards the fire.....blaze sun

Silver trees and a whispering breeze
Are my sight and my sound
The thought of heaven couldn't drag me from the path
When I'm wandering here alone

I climb higher move towards the fire.... so blaze sun
Watch until it dies slow falling from the sky
Pale fading sun