Where must senses run to be still.
Could it be that it is in the hills or maybe by the sea.
In the hills where the eagle soars and the white tail runs.
And I hold so dear to my heart the excitement of morning.
And the fresh taste of mountain air lays softly on my tongue.
As I walk on leaves fallen to the ground.
From the many trees of different kinds.
I listen to call of the nature oh senses do be still.
Now I hear the sound of waves whispering in my ear.
Slapping, lapping, crashing the beach.
Crawling up very close to my feet.
Returning to the waves as it tucks underneath.
As I listen to the waves oh senses be still.