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 [bad word] 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