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The color of an afternoon just like when you were 5 years old |
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The moon over the ocean I've seen from a island evening |
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Progression that starts to lose it's meaning |
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If we have spent most of a lifetime dreaming |
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Then dreaming is the state we shall keep |
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Stories of our solitude will sing themselves to sleep |
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And we will sing to everything the stories of where we have been |
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The history that's coursing through our veins |
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No, nothing factual is written on a page |
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So surely and so steadily |
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A slowly moving cloud will whisper "I am but for hours born to last" |
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Your sogging soaking future is my foggy fading past |
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And so now if you want to wish upon me, wish upon me fast |
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Whatever can be held in your heart is surely yours to grasp |
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So you wish for a picture of all of the people you have had the pleasure to know |
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Or a postcard from all of the places that you ever wanted to go |
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Saying "you are here now on this magical night" |
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The sun and sky at sunset, well, it's such a stunning sight |
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You can sleep safely and soundly and you are loved |
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And nothing ever does begin like nothing ever ends |
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Ask every atom in your body and they'll surely tell you |
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"friend, I am old as time and older still" |
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And you are made of everything you love, you feel, or kill |
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I will outlive you, and forgive you, and be just a baby still |
