Up from the pastures of boredom   out from the sea of discontent   they come in packs like hungry hounds   the seekers of the dark enchantment.      They haunt the boulevards and bars   they pray to wishing wells and stars   they ride the hurricane of hope   not looking back but on they go   toward the distance and deceiving   and all the while they keep believing   they are special and apart   the lovers, the lovers of the heart... the lovers.      And when they pair off two by two   they feel they are the chosen few   and though their beds are made of straw   they feel like velvet in the night   and so the night is never ending   it’s made of distance and pretending   coz they’re special and apart   the lovers, the lovers of the heart... the lovers.      And when love goes away   and when love goes...   goodbye...   catches in their throats like cotton   rises in their hearts like rain   the good times suddenly are all forgotten   the hunt begins again.      They search the subways and the streets   their faces tired, like their feet   their bodies aching to be warm   and so they hide behind the moon   their loneliness inside them growing   but they take comfort in just knowing   that they are special and apart   the lovers, the lovers of the heart... the lovers      And when love comes again   and when love comes   hello...   rises from their throats like singing   catches in their hearts like wind   the good things   strangers in their arms are bringing   makes life all right again.      They turn their faces to the light   no longer hiding in the night   so unashamed and unafraid   that they can face each other’s faults   and though the waltz will have its ending   there is no harm in just pretending   that they are special and apart   the lovers, the lovers of the heart... the lovers.