Blue as the sky on a mid-winters day
Sharp as a knife that cuts through the haze
I seek a warm place in the arms of my love
I run after her as to catch a young dove
She catches the wind that blows from the sea
Now I'm growing old and she's growing free...

Wash away now these illusions of youth
Independent of madness, inconsistent with truth
So easy to remember yet harder to find
The ways of my youth when I was yet blind...