Apple Tree کے بول

I am sick again Settled into a much stranger skin Through these addled eyes and murdered midnights All of the umbras entwined, they’re sickles in my spine I am with you still The skeleton of a faith we can’t kill When you say you will, say you will Every night lets some magic in As the moon marauds the salt on your skin Every night, smells like cinnamon As the moon marauds the salt on your skin I can see it now Withering from an ardor avowed Fear as manifold, sentiment sold 'Cause I am sick again The fever pitch of a dream that won’t end Cold as apple white, sweet as starlight