It’s just a thought, tied in a knot,
About the changing of the winds,
And what it brings.
The new season comes and goes,
And I enter it via planes and trains to the place I call home.
It’s just an idea, put there on a plate,
And fed to whoever would like to translate it.
When my wings float over the smoke of the sky,
I think and I think but I can find no reason why I always come back to the place I call home.
It’s just a theory seen through wide eyes but not seen clearly.
When the train runs like a die and my thoughts fly like wild fire.
I still can’t find what it is that pulls it off track,
And takes me back to the place I call home.
It’s just a guess, it’s nothing more.
It’s just a dot on the other side of the shore.
Waving me in and guiding me over.
I look round and it hits me that I’ve just drifted and flown where those new winds have blown.
All along I should’ve known they’d take me back to the place that I call home.