Dance (BG)
We're dancing on a hillside,
And midday sings like a reed-pipe.
I'm called April.
Ah, how high are the heavens:
Them even by hand not to reach;
And I want with wind to write
A tune of this dream.
And us no one will catch up,
Because, not knowing the way,
We kept the particle of fire
And believed – all ahead.
We're dancing on a hillside,
And midday sings like a reed-pipe.
I'm called April.
Ah, how high are the heavens:
Them even by hand not to reach;
And I want with wind to write
A tune of this dream.
And us no one will catch up,
Because, not knowing the way,
We kept the particle of fire
And believed – all ahead.