|
I can see myself it's a golden sunrise |
|
Young boy open up your eyes |
|
It's supposed to be your day. |
|
Now off you go horizon bound |
|
And you won't stop until you've found |
|
Your own kind of way. |
|
And the wind will whip your tousled hair, |
|
The sun, the rain, the sweet despair, |
|
Great tales of love and strife. |
|
And somewhere on your path to glory |
|
You will write your story of a life. |
|
And all the towns that you walk through |
|
And all the people that you talk to |
|
Sing you their songs. |
|
And there are times you change your stride, |
|
There are times you can't decide |
|
Still you go on. |
|
And then the young girls dance their gypsy tunes |
|
And share the secrets of the moon |
|
So soon you find a wife. |
|
And though she sees your dreams go poorly |
|
Still she joins your story of a life. |
|
So you settle down and the children come |
|
And you find a place that you come from. |
|
Your wandering is done. |
|
And all your dreams of open spaces |
|
You find in your children's faces |
|
One by one. |
|
And all the trips you know you missed |
|
And all the lips you never kissed |
|
Cut through you like a knife. |
|
And now you see stretched out before thee |
|
Just another story of a life. |
|
So what do you do now? |
|
When she looks at you now? |
|
You know those same old jokes all the jesters tell |
|
You tell them to her now. |
|
And all the same old songs all the minstrels sang |
|
You sing 'em to her now. |
|
But it don't matter anyhow ' |
|
Cause she knows by now. |
|
So every chance you take don't mean a thing. |
|
What variations can you bring |
|
To this shopworn melody. |
|
And every year goes by like a tollin' bell. |
|
It's battered merchandise you sell. |
|
Not well, she can see. |
|
And though she's heard it all a thousand times |
|
Couched in your attempted rhymes |
|
She'll march to your drum and fife. |
|
But the question echoes up before me |
|
Where's the magic story of a life? |
|
Now sometimes words can serve me well |
|
Sometimes words can go to hell |
|
For all that they do. |
|
And for every dream that took me high |
|
There's been a dream that's passed me by. |
|
I know it's so true |
|
And I can see it clear out to the end |
|
And I'll whisper to her now again |
|
Because she shared my life. |
|
For more than all the ghosts of glory |
|
She makes up the story, |
|
She's the only story |
|
Of my life. |