| [00:07.28] |
Under the archway across the cold courtyard |
| [00:14.47] |
Up the stone stairway all pitted and worn |
| [00:20.69] |
To a room in a shambles with orange-boxes for chairs |
| [00:27.70] |
Our lives lay scattered still yet to be born |
| [00:40.32] |
Daylight would show you the cracks in the ceiling |
| [00:47.11] |
Wallpaper hanging all tattered and torn |
| [00:53.66] |
It looks like a junkyard of paraphernalia |
| [01:00.54] |
Where three dreamers dreamed dreams still yet to be born |
| [01:13.26] |
One was a dreamer a love-torn romantic |
| [01:19.77] |
Who sang ballads of barons and ladies forlorn |
| [01:26.35] |
Who carved love-chains of oakwood to capture his sweethearts |
| [01:33.72] |
And life lay before him still yet to be born |
| [01:46.00] |
The other was a maker of dreams from his fingers |
| [01:52.71] |
Like a harp from old Ireland that would play night and morn |
| [01:59.40] |
He would weave you and spin you a yarn to remember |
| [02:06.39] |
And leave you with sweet dreams still yet to be born |
