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When August winds are turning, |
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The fishing boats set out upon the sea, |
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I watch 'til they sail out of sight, |
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The winter follows soon, |
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I watch them drawn into the night, |
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Beneath the August moon. |
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No one knows I come here, |
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Some things I don't share, |
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I can't explain the reasons why, |
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It moves me close to tears, |
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Or something in the season's change, |
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Will find me wandering here. |
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And in my public moments, |
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I hear the things I say but they're not me, |
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Perhaps I'll know before I die, |
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Admit that there's a reason why, |
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I count the boats returning to the sea, |
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I count the boats returning to the sea. |
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And in my private moments, |
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I drop the mask that I've been forced to wear, |
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But no one knows this secret me, |
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Where albeit unconsciously, |
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I count the boats returning from the sea, |
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I count the boats returning from the sea. |
