I saw him in dreams and reality. He was with hair so black it sparkled like diamonds under the dull light of the moon. And the moon, oh the moon, were his eyes. His eyes, those mysterious mercury eyes, they stared unflinchingly without emotion. He is not cruel, he is my knight. And he waits, like a patient saint, under the oak tree. He waits for me.
I love him in dreams and reality. Because when he touches me, I could see. When he whispers my name, I could fly. And he loves me too because he told me with his grey eyes and calloused hands.
When I wake, he's there. A mist, a ghost, a face. And he would kiss me, ever so lightly that I would swoon and wish for him to stay. Yet he wouldn't - couldn't.
And I watch him leave; his scent that was musk and mint breaks my heart. He does not look back because looking back meant dying and defeat; he won't be one of the dead. So when I cried out his name, he just stopped; reluctant and unsure. And I wept when I heard him speak the language of the angels, of the Celts and the Irish.
I love him in dreams and reality. Because when he touches me, I could see. When he whispers my name, I could fly. And he loves me too because he told me with his grey eyes and calloused hands.
When I wake, he's there. A mist, a ghost, a face. And he would kiss me, ever so lightly that I would swoon and wish for him to stay. Yet he wouldn't - couldn't.
And I watch him leave; his scent that was musk and mint breaks my heart. He does not look back because looking back meant dying and defeat; he won't be one of the dead. So when I cried out his name, he just stopped; reluctant and unsure. And I wept when I heard him speak the language of the angels, of the Celts and the Irish.