O the minarets of Constantinople
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Are plated gold, ivory, and opal
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Their cupolas all onion domed and light.
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And the magistrate of Constantinople
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Has made a match; his family was hopeful
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Their daughter would be promised a wedding night.
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But the Sultan's weary bride, she won't be wed tonight
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Nor fall beneath a canopy to lie
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For far across the town, her lover's lying drowned
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And painted by the Bosporus in blue
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And there's nothing for a broken heart to do.
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Down the dirty streets of Constantinople
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The beggars weep, their hands all wide open
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Their severed leper limbs all swing and sway.
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At a windowsill in Constantinople
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Our Hero sighs to melodies noteful
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And gazes on the walls that hold his love.
|
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But the Sultan's weary bride, she won't be wed tonight
|
Nor fall beneath a canopy to lie
|
For far across the town, her lover now is drowned
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And painted by the Bosporus in blue
|
And there's nothing for a broken heart to do.
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No, there's nothing for a broken heart to do.
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Except cry.
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|
-----------------
|
Constantinople
|
| The Decemberists |
