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.