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We've left our homes
for the dusty road,
though it weighed us down to go.
Now, see
the burning in the sun
the fire in our bellies.

Today ate us up,
and never chewed.
but we still roll along this hill.
A change that we don't see
is happening to me,
though you are watching.

It is cold, it is dark
in the big, black heart
of the wood, of the hill of our home.
We are out of our depth,
and our width and breadth.
We are out of the pan,
in the fire.

It is green, it is damp
by the burning lamp
of the woods, of the hills of our home.
Oh how I long for the things I have,
for the burden I don't own.

Do I know how to please your head?
Pour the contents back, when you're spilling from my bed?
The day's warm, and the spark won't come
New song in our chest

It is cold, it is dark
in the big black heart
of the wood of the hill of our home
We are out of our depth
and our width and breadth
We are out of the pan
in the fire.

Oh, you, the husband of the wife,
I know you are watching.
Oh, you, the husband of the wife,
I know you are watching.

Home.
Home.
Home...