What little do strange paths offer,
Voices that lead on to our fates.
What is but known of paths we take,
Are the days we tell our tales.
Tales of evenings lost in retrospect,
Of events there was a tell we see,
But for slights we have ballads,
Forgone are the dreams of me.
Where can I put my head at rest,
But a lap has been stolen of me,
In doubt does our hearts dwell,
Where can find my heart, my love.
