And even though it all went wrong I'll stand right here before the Lord of song with nothing, nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah.
She tied you to a kitchen chair. She broke your throne, and she cut your hair and from your lips she drew the Hallelujah.
Un aquilone è l’ultima poesia che hai scritto, così l’affidi al vento, ma non la lasci andare finché qualcuno non ti trova qualcos’altro da fare.
And I remember when I moved in you and the holy dove she was moving too and every single breath we drew was Hallelujah.