Indian Rain

I feel as if I have been buried alive

For the best part of five hundred years

My body encased in a mountain of waste

Until one day my face reappears

My limbs, they are bent with the years they have spent

In positions tormenting my soul

But now they are free to emancipate me

From the celibacy of this hole

So turn in your grave

Hold back the incoming wave

Warm wind in my face like the linen and the lace

Soft surrounding her waist like a mask

Fresh air in my lungs like the sharing of songs

Pleasure tripping our tongues through the grass

New blood in my veins like red indian rain

Stripping us of all the shame we possess

With tears in my eyes and anguish I will cry

I was free all the time I confess

So turn in your grave

Hold back the incoming wave

So turn in your grave...

Hold back the incoming wave

Of indian rain

Indian rain