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 leftI 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 sameMy high-flying bird
Has flown from out my arms
I thought myself her keeper
She thought I meant her harmShe thought I was the archer
A weatherman of words
But I could never shoot down
My, my high-flying birdThe white walls of your dressing room
Are stained in scarlet red
You bled upon the cold stone
Like a young man
Hmm, in the foreign field of deathOh, 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 awayMy high-flying bird
Has flown from out my arms
I thought myself her keeper
She thought I meant her harmShe thought I was the archer
A weatherman of words
But I could never shoot down
MyMy high-flying bird
Has flown from out my arms
I thought myself her keeper
She thought I meant her harmShe thought I was the archer
A weatherman of words
But I could never shoot down
My, my high-flying birdMy high-flying, high-flying bird
My high-flying, high-flying bird
My high-flying, high-flying bird
My high-flying, high-flying bird