Beneath the stars along the road the Perfect Traveller speaks
There's nothing that he wants to know, there's nothing that he seeks
He can't remember where he comes from, he doesn't care where he's bound
And all the wonders of the world, both shallow and profound are just ashes on the ground
He does not dwell on memories, the past is not in his mind
The things he sees along the way are the things he left behind
He loves the traces of the swallow's flight he sees but cannot touch
Forgotten realms of the perfect world he recognises as such. He doesn't care too much
Every spec of dust he kicks in the air is added to his book of rhyme
Blisters on his weary feet are just proof of passing time
On a journey that has no end there is no right or wrong
Everything has it's own place, a place where it belongs
The arrow flying through the air it cannot change its course
The world without and the world within they both have the same source. The one and only source.
Beneath the stars along the road the Perfect Traveller speaks
There's nothing that he wants to know, there's nothing that he seeks
He can't remember where he comes from, he doesn't care where he's bound
And all the wonders of the world, both shallow and profound are just ashes on the ground