The moon was full and had climbed so high,
Stained with silver and despair
Its’ light reflecting off your Arctic skin,
As it wandered through your auburn hair
And the wind is jealous of your voice
The story flowed through your vein of love,
Down to the emptiness on your left hand
Forget-me-nots caressed your soles,
As you made your way along the broken strand
And the sea is jealous of your tears
And though I find no sanctuary,
I can always dream my way back to you
In so many varied, tainted themes,
Of those first 8 letters that I wrote you true,
And I am jealous of your world
Though I still might search in the crowd,
For a scent of your perfume
As rumours spread
Like a mountain brushwood fire,
Ah the brittle fate of me and you
And I am jealous of your world
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