Tekster: The Decemberists. The Crane Wife 3.

And under the bowsunbelle
I'll hold in the snowy shroud
She had no heart so hardened
All under the bowsunbelle

Each feather it fell from skin
'Till thread bare and she grew thin
How were my eyes so blinded?
Each feather it fell from skin

And I will hang my head, hang my head low
And I will hang my head, hang my head low

Her grey sky with bitter skin
A rain cloud rain on me
All out behind horizon, oh
A grey sky of bitter skin

And I will hang my head, hang my head low
And I will hang my head, hang my head low