| In a foreign city once again
|
| You wave at weakly in the night
|
| The early sun of London morning
|
| Burned the darkness with unanswered light
|
| But morning found you crying
|
| Waiting for a woman
|
| Where she left you in an empty state of mind
|
| Waiting not for her but for relief from passing time
|
| And a young friend talking softly
|
| As the mist keep tumbling down
|
| But the woman waiting for him near
|
| Stayed and told you of the peace that could be found
|
| And a fallen heart was woken
|
| In your tired waiting time
|
| And you thought you might begin again
|
| From all the ashes of your mind
|
| And though he used no poetry
|
| His words are weaving songs
|
| And the peace they were recalling
|
| Were good roads that you might have walked along
|
| And the skies you saw were all the same
|
| Although his words were not your own
|
| But the words and images you’ve spoken
|
| Are the ashes from a peace you’d never known |