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
In this way, my love
Come to me
In a language of two hands
It is 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 nor by power by his spirit
His loving intention, His loving intention
And 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
It is a strange poetry
See the golden chariot wheel
It glitters 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 the language of two hands
She is turning in
She is turning
Turning into gold
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