Scarlet is the colour of her heart, against the night,
Prism of her innocence is fracturing the light,
She will take the stairwell down to dark and heartless streets,
And spend her season singing songs to infidels and thieves.
Love is so blind; it’s so blind,
Love is so blind; it’s so blind,
Love is so blind; it’s so blind,
Love is so blind.
Her eyes will meet the faces of the profane and the poor,
Give to them the pearls she keeps behind her inner doors,
She will speak the truth, and she will ache,
And she will bleed for the idiots who own the air the prophets have to breathe.
Love is so blind; it’s so blind,
Love is so blind; it’s so blind,
Love is so blind,
Love is so blind.
She is not the mystery they make her out to be,
She calls them like she sees them; she sees unselfishly,
Ears of those who listen can be callous or concerned,
They pity her naiveté, or marvel at her worth.
Love is so blind; it’s so blind,
Love is so blind; it’s so blind,
Love is so blind; it’s so blind,
Love is so blind; it’s so blind.
