This is the bliss we're feeling.
This is love when it turns to speech.
This is the kiss of healing.
This is wholly withing our reach.
All along the black sand beach,
all along the white sand beach:
Dreamwaves wash up toys
to amuse us here.
Sorcery is the source
of the urge to search,
discovering the disc
of the mind's mandala.
This is the bliss we're feeling.
This is love when it turns to speech.
This is the kiss of healing.
This is the message from all to each.
Sun and stars looking down,
looking in, looking out...
Looking on in, looking on out.
Eggstones caught in cliffcave crack.
Sea-edge seals afloat in surf.
Tidal talk, the lunar machine.
Planet pulse, the ultimate ba**.
La maison inconnue,
la belle mer m'a reconnu.
Angels hover over Eden
with their Persian eyebrows raised.
La maison inconnue
la belle mer m'a reconnue.
We grow like berries,
wear our bower, clad in love.
This is the bliss we're feeling.
This is love when it turns to speech.
She'd love to share her secret,
but cannot break the spell,
so she sits inside her seashell,
where it roars, where it roars.
She dreams beneath her apple,
while the cat combs out his whisker.
And no doubt she knows the answer
to the question no one asks her.
But the box cannot be opened
until the word is spoken.
So in the nevermorning,
in the watches of the starnight,
she must sleep inside her seashell
and dream of mares and stallions
on the shores, on the shores,
where it roars, where it roars.