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
