Oh how sadly sound the songs the queen must sing of dying
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A prisoner upon her throne of melancholy sighing
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If she could see her mirror now
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She would be free of those who bow and
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Scrape the ground before her feet
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Silently she walks among her dying midnight roses
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Watches as each moment goes that never really know us
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And so it seems she doesn't care
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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
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Fly behind her castle walls, and I'm
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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
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Misunderstandings; but
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All my frozen words agree and say it's time to
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Call back all the birds I sent to
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Fly behind her castle walls, and I'm
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Weary of the nights I've seen
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Inside these empty walls
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The Birds Of St. Marks
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| Jackson Browne |
