Idioma Origen:
I lit my purest candle close to my
Window, hoping it would catch the eye
Of any vagabond who passed it by,
And I waited in my fleeting house
Before he came I felt him drawing near;
As he neared I felt the ancient fear
That he had come to wound my door and jeer,
And I waited in my fleeting house
"Tell me stories" I called to the Hobo;
"Stories of cold" I smiled at the Hobo;
"Stories of old" I knelt to the Hobo;
And he stood before my fleeting house
No, said the Hobo, No more tales of time;
Don't ask me now to wash away the grime;
I can't come in 'cause it's too high a climb,"
And he walked away from my fleeting house
Then you be damned! I screamed to the Hobo;
Leave me alone, I wept to the Hobo;
Turn into stone, I knelt to the Hobo;
And he walked away from my fleeting house
Idioma Destino:
I lit my purest candle close to my
Window, hoping it would catch the eye
Of any vagabond who passed it by,
And I waited in my fleeting house
Before he came I felt him drawing near;
As he neared I felt the ancient fear
That he had come to wound my door and jeer,
And I waited in my fleeting house
"Tell me stories" I called to the Hobo;
"Stories of cold" I smiled at the Hobo;
"Stories of old" I knelt to the Hobo;
And he stood before my fleeting house
No, said the Hobo, No more tales of time;
Don't ask me now to wash away the grime;
I can't come in 'cause it's too high a climb,"
And he walked away from my fleeting house
Then you be damned! I screamed to the Hobo;
Leave me alone, I wept to the Hobo;
Turn into stone, I knelt to the Hobo;
And he walked away from my fleeting house