But Home to What

The streets of Paris in the fall
There’s nothing like this
Nothing at all

I walk along the cobblestones
Here alone, so far from home

I had to leave, had to get away
From the dull derision of my days

Now at night I sit
Tired pen in hand
As on the panes, the rain doth hit

The cool fall air
I breathe it in
And think of you, again,
again

There’s nothing like this
Nothing at all
On Paris streets, the rain doth fall

A lonely girl who walks alone
The rain beats down
It calls her home

But home to what
She asks herself
A life unloved
And nothing else