Count the blessings dropped to ground,
those that fell upon your floor,
Thank the martyred messenger
who kept watch outside your door.
He’d throw pennies in the cup
of a blind man by your gate,
Thought for sure he was the one
that would save you from your fate.
Listen to the dreaming songs
carried by winds from afar,
They tell stories to those few
that know who you really are.
Many miles now stand between
a beginning and an end,
Travel becomes promise lost
when you’ve left behind a friend.
Think about the setting sun
disappearing in the east,
Shadowed footprints follow close,
made by some that were released.
You’ve been there and you’ve done that,
on a journey through your youth,
And like those that passed before
there been vacancy in truth.
Curtains close around the frame
which still holds the heart of stone,
Fallen pictures on the floor
reflect of the times alone.
Again the blind man appears
just before the hour’s late,
Holding out his rusted cup
he tips pennies o’er your gate.