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As I walk these narrow streets where a million passin' feet have trod before me |
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With my guitar in my hand, suddenly I realise nobody knows me |
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Where yesterday the multitudes screamed and cried my name out for a song |
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Now the streets are empty, and the crowds they've all gone home. |
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With the rain on my face, there's no place where I belong |
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And my whole life consists of a story, a poem and a song |
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Now the truths I've tried to tell you are as distant as the moon |
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Born a hundred years too late, two hundred years too soon. |
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I'm a child of the stage, lost in the pages of a book |
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But when I'm dust and clay, will other people stop to take a look? |
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And will they marvel at the miracles I performed, and to the heights I aspired |
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Or will they tear the pages of the book to light a fire? |
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With the rain on my face, there's no place where I belong..... |
