How I would love to wander along a silver plain.
With fragile footsteps crushed against a still, stony grain.
Time passes, so slowly along these racing, rolling hills.
But quickly I am wasting my last, lonely thrills.
I remember those long drives of complete mystery.
But now they are bound in volumes of history.
And all that can be published now is solitary, so solitary.
Unguided, poisoned, misled and stumbling, mumbling misery.
How I miss our platinum days.
How I yearn for our golden, eternal ways