Remembering is not the same
As looking back
Windows I pass on away and look into
Sometimes I'm walking by and think that I should stop
And see who's home
After all this time, there is only so much
I can say for sure
Experience has taken me
Into her arms
Like a mother of my own making
Looking out the window is not the same
As opening the door
I pass under the light, or is it that which has been moving me
Even here
After all this time, there is only so much
I can say for sure
Experience has taken me
Into her arms
Like a mother of my own making
