Letras
A lantern hung in the crooked hand
Its wick burned low
Its flame a strand
The forest spoke in tongues of old
Through bark and root
Its secrets told
Oh
What is left of the wandering years?
The map's worn thin
The path unclear
But still
It calls
It calls me near
The whisper of the pines
I hear
A bootprint sinks in the softened clay
A mark of life that won't always stay
The hills roll on
Their breath is deep
A place where dreams and questions sleep
How far
How far will the mountain climb?
How long does it take to leave behind?
Oh
What is left of the wandering years?
The map's worn thin
The path unclear
But still
It calls
It calls me near
The whisper of the pines
I hear
I once held a stone from the river's bend
Worn smooth by a current that never ends
And I thought of the years that slipped through my hand
Like water that flows
Like shifting sand