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From her old oak tree she saw him
He looked so lovely and so pure
He searched for roses in her garden
He searched for real love she was sure
She heard his lament, that there is not
A single red rose
He had promised his favourite to find one

Soon the white rose drinks the blood
Of the young nightingale

She thinks at last this is true loving
Every night I sing of it
I told this story to the stars
I hoped I'll find a piece of it
His lips are red as the rose of his desire
I would not ask him, but give him everything

I can help you says the oak tree
But is terrible to do
You must build it out of music
But it will be the death of you
Sing for a white rose and her thorn must
Pierce your heart
And your life must flow into her veins

And then the white rose drank the blood
Of the young nightingale

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