Under the archway across the cold courtyard Up the stone stairway all pitted and worn To a room in a shambles with orange-boxes for chairs Our lives lay scattered still yet to be born
Daylight would show you the cracks in the ceiling Wallpaper hanging all tattered and torn It looks like a junkyard of paraphernalia Where three dreamers dreamed dreams still yet to be born
One was a dreamer a love-torn romantic Who sang ballads of barons and ladies forlorn Who carved love-chains of oakwood to capture his sweethearts And life lay before him still yet to be born
The other was a maker of dreams from his fingers Like a harp from old Ireland that would play night and morn He would weave you and spin you a yarn to remember And leave you with sweet dreams still yet to be bornTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
