It happens almost every time that winter ends get tangled up We turn to beams of light or ways of life To make the night not full of death And lakes are raked up to the grave, We've buried their sweet smelling beams And these are waves, mound-bounding seams Might not say thanks or ask you "please?" But still, they'll treat you just the same In the same way as they would, sweetly, Other things It's coming out that makes you tired And going down that makes you soar So, catching breathes with aching limbs We all walked back to the car then It happens almost every time, my senses ends get tangled up That I'm seeing things or I have dreams But always crescent parts of breezes