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Oh, how sadly sound the songs the queen must sing of dying |
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A prisoner upon her throne, the melancholy sighing |
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If she could see her mirror now, she would be free of those who bow |
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And scrape the ground beneath her feet |
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Silently she walks among her dying midnight roses |
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And watches as each moment goes that never really know us |
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And so it seems she doesn't care, if she has dreams of no one there |
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Within the shadows of her room |
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But all my frozen words agree and say it's time to |
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Call back, all the birds I sent to fly behind her castle walls |
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And I'm weary of the nights I've seen |
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Inside these empty halls |
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Wooden lady turn and turn among my weary secrets |
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And wave within the hours past and other empty pockets |
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Maybe we've found what we have lost |
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When we've unwound so many crossed, entangling, misunderstandings |
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But all my frozen words agree and say it's time to |
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Call back all the birds I sent to fly behind her castle walls |
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And I'm weary of the nights I've seen |
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Inside these empty walls |
