Times I breathe in the holy air
Before I open my eyes to summer's dying flare
The autumn fire, the arches of rust
This hallowed aisle

Cathedrals of trees, where the altars are burning
The smoke of october leaves
Father winter is calling his herd aloud
And we are the crows who fly

From the aisle of autumn fire we arise
Over the lakes and trees we draw the night sky
With our wings we paint the vast horizons, and the stars
The stars upon the northern skies

Blinded by the midnight sun
In this land we were born
Now racing the clouds
Towards the winter's thorn, and we fly

We turn our heads towards the setting sun
The beauty and the light of the one
Who will be gone so soon, fade into her hiding
And the season of rust
Will soon harvest the living
So we can be reborn again