Ben Howard

Black flies on the windowsill
That we are
That we are
That we are to know
Winter stole summer's thrill
And the river's cracked and cold
See the sky is no man's land
A darkened plume to stay
Hope here needs a humble hand
Not a fox found in your place
And no man is an island, oh this I know
But can't you see, oh?
Maybe you were the ocean, when I was just a stone
Black flies on the windowsill
That we are
That we are
That we are to hold
Comfort came against my will
And every story must grow old
Still I'll be a traveler
A gypsy's reins to face