I was on the back of a nightingale, living like a king
Listening to the songs that you’d sing.
Home fires were burning and the smoke stung our eyes
We were blind from birth, until that night.
Love grows old and we die younger each time.
Heaven loves a martyr，
And how am I supposed to run with my legs sunk in the mud?
I wish I had grown up a little longer，
And if we’d flown south, we’d have a home at least for now
Love grows old and I lived like a king