That is not the color of your hair
Your hair is red, fire red
Woven into the fibers of my bed
And late at night it still messes with my head
And in the morning it smells like Lorca’s roses
That is not the color of my love
My love can’t rest, my love can’t die
My love can’t stop her exquisite lie
And she carves my name in small pieces of wood
And in the morning she smells like Lorca’s roses
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