What long walk shall I take home to stretch my weary heart?
The rut I’ve made grows deeper until I can walk it no more.
Broken paths are evidences of broken men
and I hang my head, unable to see.

What long walk shall I take that does not mend this heart of stone?
Too busy and too proud, I was, to see what lay before and after.
What becomes of a man when he sees his life and looks upon grief?
 Only the faint scent of moist air, and the sound of weeping.

What long walk shall I take home though I do say
home is what one makes of it and I have yet to find a place
for which to call home, and I have yet to find someone

for which to call
home.