Jeff Buckley - In My Arms

Slow birds, no breeze
Iron hearts, rustin' streams
Long march, small crimes
Soft words whisper
Its time to come home
Your eyes
To bring back your charms
To sit real still
In my arms
Clocks tick, trees pound
Lions roar on empty streets
Long lists in black and white
Red words that read like
The forth of july
You're home, look at me,
You're home, uh huh,
You're home
In my arms