It's a yearning cry,
Not knowing what I'd like to be
But I know it means:
Rolling clouds across the hills like dice, 
Rolling hills across the land like timbers
And rolling out the carpet of grass
As far as the north can take it.

Not knowing what I'd like to be
But part of the bubbling brook of your voice,
Freshly ancient, alone in the noise
Of thunder, of breezes off the sea, 
Of springy heathers, of slender grasses,
Bubbling brooks and deep rivers
Under ground, under granite,
Long seams of stone
Connecting me under the oceans.
Can you feel my kiss
On your stone cheeks?
Can you hear me call your name?
It's a yearning cry.