Texty:
Jethro Tull Ian Anderson The Secret Language Of Birds

: Fires on the mountain, and the dogs bark. Crash of the ocean swelling: crickets in the dark. The temperature is rising. The village gets no sleep

: Crystal fountain springing from the hill. It irrigates your soul. You may drink your fill. Water of life, carried high. One hand upon the gallon

: I see you better now, shaded in deeper blue. Hardly needing to carry the find-your-way lamp down to the river. Tonight flies a better moon. Sad

: My eyes are white circles above cheekbones on fire: pale hand gripping my pen. Rounding up to the zero, adding infinite fractions, letting nine

: (Instrumental)

: Pick up my wings and fly into a Constable sky. Look down on the world and try to make you out on the distant ground. Lonely toy in a lost toy-town

: Cool in the corner, tom cat sitting on the edge of the yard; sand-flies flitting. Orange order on a field of green. Smothers me to smithereens.

I see you better now, shaded in deeper blue. Hardly needing to carry the find-your-way lamp down to the river. Tonight flies a better moon. Sad water

Pick up my wings and fly into a Constable sky. Look down on the world and try to make you out on the distant ground. Lonely toy in a lost toy-town