You wore a little cross of gold around your neck I saw it as you flew between my reason
Like a raven in the night time when you left I wear a chain upon my wrist that bears no name You touched it and you wore it And you kept it in your pillow all the same
My high-flying bird has flown from out my arms I thought myself her keeper She thought I meant her harm She thought I was the archer A weather man of words But I could never shoot down My high-flying bird
The white walls of your dressing room are stained in scarlet red You bled upon the cold stone like a young man In the foreign field of death Wouldn´t it be wonderful is all I heard you say
You never closed your eyes at night and learned to love daylight Instead you moved away