He's the loneliest boy I know,
And I see him everyday.
I've seen him live and grow
To pottery from clay.
Everyday I watch him walking in the street,
And hear the languid, lonely beat in reverb and repeat,
Which ever follows close and never disappears,
That mournful, simple pulse that no one ever hears.
And right within his eyes
Is a loneliness and loss, which ever seems to be;
And although he rarely—nay, never—cries,
He looks and cries to me.
Days may be sunny and bright,
But the burden on his back never seems light,
And although the sky may carry no cloud,
He's ever covered by a gloomy shroud;
And the steady beat of his heavy feet,
Comes lonely in the dripping, pulsing rain,
And although we two never seem to meet,
I feel his silent pain.