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There are days when sorrow seems never-ending |
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Like the countless roads upon which I've driven |
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The price of attachment in pursuit of dreams |
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That I so often can't seem to remember |
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Yet there are days when beauty cannot be contained |
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It even crawls out from under ordinary things |
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A foreigner, no place to go |
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Holding on, making the most |
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Of what little time I have |
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All the wasted words I said |
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In all the cities that I left |
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The last act of our previous play |
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Must not close with regret |
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I will not leave wishing I had done things differently |
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The moments I treasure are seldom the ones |
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That I planned for |
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And if I knew where pain hid I might still let it go |
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So when the audience has run toward the latest drift |
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It will be my time to face the life that I have set |
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A foreigner in my own home |
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Holding on, no place to go |
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All the wasted words I said |
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In all the cities that I left |
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The last act of our previous play |
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Must not close with regret (regret) |
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All the wasted words |
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Some days the line between peace |
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And pain seems more like blur |
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But I know with certainty |
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I can't leave wishing, I cannot leave |
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I can't leave wishing I'd done things differently |
