Forgetting the beautiful things
Is the crime within the sands
Is the loss with in the cards
Of our wrinkled hand

So young
So fair
So much ahead they say
But something in our mind
Tells us it never meant a thing

For the young feel so old
The fair feel so week
Were we meant to be restless
For restlessness is simply running
From the nightmare – in our head

Already the beauty is lost
In the pretty things they said
Their voices quickly faded
Only soft whispers in your head
And then nothin
Weren’t we suppose to be young

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