I have often told you stories about the way.
I live the life of a drifter,
waiting for the day.
When I take your hand and sing you songs then maybe you would say, "Come lay with me and love me,"
and I would surely stay.
But I feel I'm growing older.
And the songs that I have sang
echo in the distance like the sound of a windmill going round.
I guess I'll always be a soldier of fortune.
Many times I've been a traveler,
I looked for something new.
In days of old, when nights were cold,
I wandered without you.
But those days I thought my eyes had seen you standing there.
Though blindness is confusing,
it shows that you're not here.