Lonely were the poets,

Sitting pretty, sitting perfect

In imaginary places on the sands.

We waited for the sunset,

For the problematic calm,

Then took a chance and tried to call up what we can.

And longing for the meaning,

When you spoke to me I heard it.

Tried to speak but I retreat and let it go.

A shame that I should know the ways

Of Einsteins in the making and

Confucius has not a thing on you; it’s true.

But repeat is all I do.

Repeat is all I do.

And here we are still standing,

Let me listen for a while to the

Chiming and the singing of your soul.

Underneath the moonshine,

In the stillness of the night,

You took my hand and said you know I feel the cold.

Oh my love, you know I feel the cold.