Oh let the sun beat down upon my face,
with stars to fill my dreams.
I am a traveller of both time and space,
to be where I have been,
and sit with elders of a gentle race
this world has seldom seen,
who talk of days for which they sit and wait
when all will be revealed.

With talk and song from tounges of lilting grace
the sounds caressed my ears.
Though not a word I've heard could I relate,
the story was quite clear.

All I see turns to brown,
as the sun burns the ground,
and my eyes fill with sand
as I scan this wasted land
trying to find where I've been.

Oh pilot of the storm who leaves no trace
like thoughts inside a dream.
Who hid the path that led me to that place
with yellow desert screen?
My Shangrila beneath the summer moon,
I will return again.
Sure as the dust it blows high in June
when moving through Kashmir.

Oh Father of the four winds fill my sails
to cross the sea of years
with no provisions but an open face
to flaunt the straits of fear.