Marc Bolan - Wind Quartets - Sözleri

The wind quartet howls softly 

My jeep hand strokes her necklace 

Crusted, crammed with old Etruscan gold. 



Her bird head torn with summer 

Inspects a Spartan runner 

Robbing time a chosen Prince of Speed 



My goblet drenched with Autumn 

Tears for my dead cat Ena 

Silver Surfer sorcerer of spray. 



She headed deep in chartreuse 

A falcon glimpse of white teeth 

Separated by lace cinnamon folds. 



We hid and rid in hansom 

Cab wrenched from lost Byzantium 

Lordlett who once held the earth In chains













		
			



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