From the recording Windows
A woman having a quiet spiritual experience in the middle of a crowded city park.
The sound of the cricketts are humming. The bells of the angels are ringing. Doves are singing a song of devotion, a cry in slow motion. They don’t reveal their faces for me. They sing like a memory fading, but they leave traces. The song has been sung through the ages. A call to each generation. All the angels are waiting in hopes we never stop reaching. They don’t reveal their faces for me. They feel like a memory fading away. Away.. Fading away, but they leave traces. Where do they go? Where do they go? Where do they go? Tell me where do they go. When they fade away? They fade away…