You might see him walking
where the cold wind blows,
a troubled ol' boy
that no one knows..
He'll stumble through
a small, quiet town
talking under his breath
and looking down
Where he comes from
and where he goes,
I guess, depends where
the cold wind blows.
He leaves no footprint,
No hellos or goodbyes
with nary a hint of life
inside his empty, pale eyes
No one calls his name
but the crickets and crows
and the whispering pines
where the cold wind blows.
I hear tell of a time
before the cold winds blew
when that troubled ol' boy
knew all that he knew
He had a light in his eyes
and purpose in his step
with words well spoken
and his place well kept.
But we reap what we reap
from the seeds that we sow
Perhaps he's bound to roam
where the cold winds blow.
A path he knows
but never quite chose