歌词
Small cherubs blow
their seashell horns.
A holy roar
your herald.
Your auburn glow,
your floral voice,
they call me on.
The sight of petals trails your step.
I don't believe we've ever met.
Won't you grant me your velvet hand?
I'd die to know a fraction of your warmth.
The lights above dance serpentine.
Your aura a golden ring.