( And there's a wistfulness to it, the edge of silent, romantic intoxication. As if a boy was born with his dream in hand, and now he clutches his fist tight. As if this was known to him before all else. )
They say there is a land at the end of the world, where every flower sleeps in bloom, and every man only knows youth and happiness.
( He will reach that soil, become that man. ) We will sail there.
no subject
( And there's a wistfulness to it, the edge of silent, romantic intoxication. As if a boy was born with his dream in hand, and now he clutches his fist tight. As if this was known to him before all else. )
They say there is a land at the end of the world, where every flower sleeps in bloom, and every man only knows youth and happiness.
( He will reach that soil, become that man. ) We will sail there.