With the breeze that carries dreams
across a field of growing clover.
In that breeze, it too oft seems
that quick, the dream is over.
Across a field of growing clover,
we ponder then hesitate;
that quick, the dream is over
but once again, we've lost to fate.
We ponder, then hesitate
a glimmer we hope to find.
But once again, we've lost to fate
and perhaps we've lost our mind.
A glimmer we hope to find
in that breeze, it too oft seems;
and perhaps we've lost our mind
with the breeze that carries dreams.




7 old applause
