How delicate the tracery of her fine lines
Like a moonlight lacetops of the evening pines.
Like a song half heard through a close door
Like an old book when you cannot read the writting anymore
How innocent her visage as my child lover lies.
Pressed against the rainswept windy windows of my eyes.
Like a antique etching glass desing
Thatsome how turned out wrong
I keep looking through ol varnish
At my late lover's body
Caugh on ancient canvas
And decaying...disappearing
Even as I sing this song
How secretely and silently my sorrow dissappears.
You can't see it with your eyes and hear it with your ears.
It's like a watermark that's never there and never really gone.
I keep looking through old varnish
At my late lover's body
Caught on ancient canvas
And decaying...desappearing
Even as I sing this song
Even as I sing this song
Even as I sing this song
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