The branches of every tree are near red
Like a soft blanket
Man!
They gaze into each other’s mirrors
Like a soft blanket
Hands wanting to stroke what is rough
They gaze into each other’s mirrors
Dreaming is a utopian occupation
Hands wanting to stroke what is rough
A kind of universal harmony
Dreaming is a utopian occupation
You’re not trying.
A kind of universal harmony
Man!
You’re not trying.
The branches of every tree are near red