My guitar is dusty, I don’t play it anymore.
It’s all been done; I know what’s in store.
A miner, in a played out mine, won’t find a single jewel.
I’m the owner of a tired mind, looking for renewal.
I’m going to the lake, let the whipping wind sting my face.
Maybe there I can begin to once again find my place.
Blow away the mundane things, the things I have reviled.
Let me look at life, once more, through the eyes of a child.