The old gates are always locked by the daughter of the keys
Sad eyes are fixed on the world from the balcony
While the six o'clock procession take their prayer books to the hall
It's sad to see them shed a tear inside the convent wall
The old gates are always locked by the daughter of the keys
Red mountains around the old gates are always locked by the daughter of the king
It's sad to see them shed a tear inside the convent wall
Keep out those who'd come
Keep out those who'd come
Where only birds and wild deer share the lives of nuns
Four ladies who in kindness burn the knowledge they have found
Their knowledge lies inside a hole, buried in the ground
Their knowledge lies inside a hole, buried in the ground
Their knowledge lies inside a hole, buried in the ground
For the sisters on the cross, seek the shadows that they have lost. In the walls where they're last, they're protected by God.
But the feeling of love is somewhere in your bones. Your body is wasted when it should have been owned.
The mother of the mission bells.
Has lived it all her life.
She never felt the hands of man touch her in the night.
And the canopies that cover her, so cold and so afraid.
Thinking holy mothers will die like spinsters in the grave.
To be single in the chapel of prayer, knelt down on your knees.
Where the corridors are echoing, their proud solemnity.
And the candlelight against the glass, plays shadow chase and tricks.
As the young girls fall, their eyes in a tears, beside the crucifix.
For the sisters on the cross, seek the shadows that they have lost.
In the walls where they're last, they're protected by God.
But the feeling of love is somewhere in your bones.
In the walls where they're last, they're protected by God.
For the sisters on the cross, like spinsters in the grave.
There is nothing that no mountain can do for the two of them.
The memories of the night leans on you.
ed
Get out of the move Viva Madrid
tio
Thank you.
You