Well, the water trickles down the glass.
The first will never be the last.
At least, not here and not today.
The sharp sun’s rays bite at my face,
and the howling wind begs me to stay,
but I really must be getting home.
It might be time for me to go.
But that doesn’t mean you have to leave.
And winter might be giving us snow.
But who’s to say we can’t still believe?
The trees have all cut their hair,
they’ve said goodbye and left somewhere
as a sea of fields greet us
and push us onward.
We’ve curled up and settled in
and in this life you can never win,
only hope and pray that you
can keep what you have.
Well, it might be time for me to go.
But that doesn’t mean you have to leave.
And winter might be giving us snow.
But who’s to say we can’t still believe?
Our sleep will become deeper soon
more beautiful than the sun, sea, the moon
that’s ours, and no one can take it . . .
It might be time for me to go.
But that doesn’t mean you have to leave.
And winter might be giving us snow.
But who’s to say we can’t still believe?
Our engine will keep on turning,
and the stars will smile on us.
And even when we’re torn apart,
I will not lose this love.
