Written by: Mark Brine
The mist above the graveyard looked like freedom reaching up
caressing the early darkened sky.
And I felt a part of me let go and it felt so good to feel my spirit fly –
fly away, fly – away.
From all the madness and sadness of this world the never-ending wars.
Of pig-piles, groping, twisting, tanglin', fightin' for the pie
and yet still always wantin' more - no, fly - away, fly – away.
Bridge: Fly – away, fly – away.
The seed is placed deep in the dirt or else it cannot bloom.
Still the flower just takes so very long
to come up thru the filthy earth and reach out towards the sun
like as if, to fly – away. Yes, to fly away.
Shedding of its seed and self upon the tilled earth's surface bare.
Yes, it’s all the Gardener's plan to pick His special roses
for His mansion in the air - and in the air, we fly – away, fly – away.
©2003 Mark Brine/Mark Brine Music (BMI)