As I walk these narrow streets
Where a million passin' feet have trod before me
With my guitar in my hand
Suddenly I realise nobody knows me.
Where yesterday the multitudes screamed
And cried my name out for a song
Now the streets are empty
And the crowds, they've all gone home.
With the rain on my face
There's no place where I belong
And my whole life consists of a story
A poem and a song.
Now the truths I tried to tell you
Are as distant as the moon
Born a hundred years too late
Two hundred years too soon.
I'm a child of the saint
Lost in the pages of a book
But when I'm dust and clay
Will other people stop to take a look.
And will they marvel at the miracles I perform
And to the heights I aspire
Or will they tear the pages from the book
To light a fire.
With the rain on my face
There's no place where I belong