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