Roam alone, from home to home,
The road I follow cold as stone.
It sets apart, this depth of heart,
The steps depart - they go, they go -
Until they're but an echo.

Like the flaps of a hundred wings,
Like the shy of a butter's flutter, fly!
Away and wake the wind,
And be so fluent - never stutter, no,
Afloat in flow they go.

Afloat! A float! A wisp of wind, carries it,
Above the jet of water. Across the pond like stone.
If you think I'm cross then you have never known me,
If you think my heart is set in stone.

Yet still I roam alone, from home to home.
Doesn't it sound cliche if I say: the road is all I've known?
Yet I roam alone, I rover up and go,
Beneath the waking willows in the snow,
Along the eve of sorrow, on which I woke.

Like a thousand tiny raindrops,
The flakes fall to my neck, a million,
Little tiny raindrops of regret.
But though they're tough as ice, I'll win.
Behold their wide surprise, as they melt, on my skin.

A thousand tiny raindrops made of snow.
Melting as they go, I roam this road alone,
From home to home.