In a foreign city once again,
You waved weekly in the night.
The early sun of London morning
Burned the darkness with unanswered light.
But morning found you crying;
Waiting for a woman
Where she left you in an empty state of mind,
Waiting not for her but for relief from passing time.
And a young friend talking softly,
As the mist keeps tumbling down.
But the woman waiting for him near
Stayed and told you of the peace that could be found.
And a fallen heart was woken;
In your tired waiting time.
And you thought you might begin again
From all the ashes of your mind.
And though he used no poetry:
His words are weaving songs.
And the peace they were recalling
Were good roads that you might have walked along.
And the skies you saw were all the same;
Although his words were not your own.
But the words and images you've spoken
Are the ashes from a peace you'd never known.