I was on the back of a nightingale, living like a king; Listening to the songs that you’d sing. Home fires were burning and the smoke stung our eyes; We were blind from birth, until that night.
Love grows old and we die younger each time. Heaven loves a martyr
And how am I supposed to run with my legs sunk in the mud? I wish I had grown up a little longer And if we’d flown south, we’d have a home at least for now; Love grows old And I lived like a king