The old man, in his oaken chair, he turns around, his eyes turn up to me. Older tales, many years engraved in him, mirrored in him, for all to see.
As I see him there, grey and empty, I know, I am still alive. My mind is full of little pieces, waiting to be found. All to be found, on my only human ride, all to be found, listen, one by one.
My body’s roaming now, looking for ages to be found. I dream of valleys far beyond.
I will come again, like the storm I will return, I’ll follow this pilgrim’s path to the end
He knows everything, now that’s too much for me, there’s is so much left to see. I am not afraid when my end is near.
I’ll murder the fear, because I will come again.
I’ll murder the fear, when I become him.
