On a highway along the atlantic I´m rifling through these last 17 years. The radio waxes romantic. It´s lullabies fill our eyes with tears.
We don´t say a word. There´s nothing to say that hasn´t been heard. And how you´ve grown my little bird. I´m regretting letting you fly.
6 pounds and 7 ounces. A ball of bones and flesh and tears were you. Now your hands, your tiny pink hands, grew larger than my hands ever grew.
We don´t say a word. There´s nothing to say that hasn´t been heard. And how you´ve grown my little bird. I´m regretting letting you fly. I´m regretting letting you fly. I´m regretting letting you fly.