Return of the Native
Oh Tamsin, beautiful dreamer, on whose brow the starlight kissed.
Every day she drinks anew, the blood of God with crimson lips.
Oh Tamsin, death and shadows, haunt our fragile kingdoms here.
Whisper secrets from the garden, gifts no mortal man can bear.
Oh Tamsin, harvest sickle, bright with dew left long in shade.
Find me when the day is ending, show me why the world was made.