TRIGAL
Sandro
Wheatfield
Wheatfield, where my hands expand
They compress and snatch
The color of your wheatfield
Wheatfield, oh! Wheatfield
Give me the wheatfield of your loves
To soothe old pains
With the bread from your wheatfield
Wheatfield, oh! Wheatfield
Ripe wheat is in your hair
Perhaps it stole the light from the Sun
I am the owner of your fruit
I am the mill of your love
Oh! Wheatfield, Give me your furrow and give me life
Erase my time and this wound
If your wheatfield is already mine
Ripe wheat is in your hair
Perhaps it stole the light from the Sun
I am the owner of your fruit
I am the mill of your love
Oh! Wheatfield, Give me your furrow and give me life
Erase my time and this wound
If your wheatfield is already mine
