You wore a little cross of gold around your neck

I saw it as you flew between my reason

Like a raven in the night time when you left

I wear a chain upon my wrist that bears no name

You touched it and you wore it

And you kept it in your pillow all the same



My high-flying bird has flown from out my arms

I thought myself her keeper

She thought I meant her harm

She thought I was the archer

A weather man of words

But I could never shoot down

My high-flying bird



The white walls of your dressing room are stained in scarlet red

You bled upon the cold stone like a young man

In the foreign field of death

Wouldn't it be wonderful is all I heard you say

You never closed your eyes at night and learned to love daylight

Instead you moved away