Two white horses draw the plough
From where I stand I hear no sound
The hours of this creeping day
In polished harness led away
Ploughman's feet in furrows
Walking, walking.
The years have bent this ploughman's back
As wind deforms the skyline tree
Two white horses never tire
In all the turnings of the day
Turning, always turning
In this never-ending field.
Two white horses draw the plough
From where I stand I hear no sound
Two white horses never tire
In all the turnings of the day
Walking, always walking
In this never-ending field.
