You Talk of Going but Don’t Even Have a Suitcase
I will be an old man sometime
And live in a dark room somewhere.
I will think of this night someplace
the rain falling on stone.
There will be no one near
no whisper on the street
only this song of old yearning
and the longing to be young
with you together on some street.
Now is the time for retreat,
This is the last chance.
This is not the last chance.
Why only yesterday I lay drugged
on the dark bed while they came
and went as the wind
and they shall come again
and bear me down into that pit
there is no returning from.
Old age, disaster, doom.
It shall be as this room
With you by the sink, pinching your face
in the mirror.
Time is as a river
and I shall forget this night,
its joy.
You shall disappear down the road
and I shall moan your name
in the pillow, while candles burn outside
in windows of strange houses
to mark our fame.
