1.) Cross and crow, a horse in the snow,
a promise, too readily made,
two trustful, blue eyes deep like midwinter skies -
Lord, I loved her, and yet I obeyed.
Now my nursling and I've found a home for a while
in the hush of these vine-covered walls,
the orchards gleam white in the evening light
and the spring sun gilds chapel and halls.
The sisters are silent and keep to themselves
as they drift under pillars and trees,
they tenderly smile when they pass in the aisle
and fade in the dusk like a breeze.
I bathe her, I feed her, I try not to heed her,
but her hair, oh, her hair smells so good!
Mary cradles her son as two lives are undone
in the convent St. Clare-in-the wood.
Nai nai nai nai nai nai nai nai nai nai nai
she longingly grabs for my hands,
Nai nai nai nai nai nai nai nai nai nai nai nai
language all love understands.
2.) There are moments of light, little stars in the night,
when I fail to act callous and rough,
each secret, swift kiss is a sparklet of bliss
but I know it's not nearly enough.
Aside, in her cradle, she's ceaselessly crying,
sweet God, just to soothe her and sing!
I flee from our room to the orchards in bloom
and pour out my grief to the spring.
In my daydreams, she laughs as I show her the gardens,
in my prayers, I call her Sophie,
In my mind she will grow to be bright and aglow,
but my heart knows it will not will be.
May her dreams claim her gently and cradle her soul
and caress her like I never could!
But she sinks into sleep like a bottomless deep
in the nights of St. Clare-in-the-wood.
Nai nai nai nai nai nai nai nai nai nai
I touch her with fingers of stone.
Nai nai nai nai nai nai nai nai nai nai
So alone - so very alone. . . .
3.) The spring birds are quiet. The sun has moved on.
Soft, white petals now dance in the halls.
She sleeps more and more. She is seeeking the door,
lost in a maze of cool walls.
The sisters are sighing. She's is no longer crying.
She's pallid and wanes with the moon.
I slip to her side in the black of the night,
whispering „soon now, soon now, soon now, soon. . .“
We stumble and pray as the world wears away
and God watches us, silent and stark,
sees the king's cruel charades making monsters of maids
and the children of the dark.
Mild breezes now play in the desolate arches
where abbey and cloister once stood.
Though the orchards grow wild they remember the child
that was lost in St. Clare-in-the-wood.