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Jackson Browne - Birds Of St. Marks

Oh how sadly sound the songs the queen must sing of dying
A prisoner upon her throne of melancholy sighing
If she could see her mirror now
She would be free of those who bow and
Scrape the ground before her feet

Silently she walks among her dying midnight roses
Watches as each moment goes that never really know us
And so it seems she doesn't care
If she has dreams of no one there
Within the shadows of her room

But all my frozen words agree, and say it's time to
Call back, all the birds I sent to
Fly behind...

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