​his land Paris Paloma

[Verse 1]
I smelt smoke on the wheezing of the wind when I awoke
A pyre of memory, some fly-tipped treasury out there burning slow
Dark soaked fields and the snuffling wet noses at my heels
Suddenly hackles raise at the crackling of the blaze out there burning slow

[Chorus]
And sometimes I catch him
With his axe in the shadow
So secretive and private
But I'm breathin' in his life when
He's out there burning slow

[Verse 2]
What a hoard! It should be wild, it should be where wanderers walk
That hidden wood of green, the lake that he gatekeeps, yet I know not what for
I would tread, build a fire and make the forest floor my bed
I would forage for my meal, and in doing start to heal, but instead

[Chorus]
All the time, I covet
What he covers by the hedgerow
So secretive and private
But I'm breathing in his life when
He's out there burning slow