When the dust has settled and
The ashes scattered,
When the sound has all died out and
The leaves are left dry to crunch underfoot and
The doors to our homes are neither open nor
Closed but rotted to the ground where
They used to stand,
I'll still be sitting by my tent with my
Lone guitar, looking across the fire
Into your eyes focused on the
Mountains behind me, and
I don't think there's a single ******* thing
That could make me ever look back.