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