Luyện nghe bài hát You Were But A Ghost In My Arms

Like snowfall, you cry a storm
tears paint rivers on this oaken wall. . .
Amber nectar, misery
. . .cascading in of hallowed form
For each stain, a shadow

You are the spirit
Etched in the oak of
You are the sullen and silent storm

night I lay
Awakened by her shivering silent
From the in the corridor walls.
It pierces the solitude that of a distant scream
In the forest of my delusion. . .

With each passing day, a grave. . .

"Why did you me to die?"
"Why did you me?"
"Why did you walk away and me bitterly yearning?"

Her haunting, contorted despair was etched into the wood's
Though fire rages me, no fire burns fiercer than her desire
The whispers my name. . .

I damn oak!
I her sorrow!
I these oaken corridors
That bear the ghosts of those I've away!

Though tempted I am to caress her divine
And taste her pain sweet, like brandy wine;
I must burn halls, these corridors
And silence her shrill, voice
. . .forever. . .

snowfall, you cried a silent storm
No tears this dust in my hands
But from this ashen gray, her still
my name. . .

You were the lugubrious
Who the oak of wonder
You were the geist that warned frozen silent storm
You but a ghost in my arms