Early morning, dreary horizon,
Aching hands are pulling a millstone,
Wailing from the cart,
Moaning from a shattered heart.
He's burned down many a bridge,
And he's scared of walking in the dark,
It hurts when the rain falls on his skin,
It hurts when the rain falls on his skin.
Oh he is worn out from marching
And he's forgotten for what he's searching.
Yet he keeps up the stride,
God knows that he won't arrive.
He's burned down many a bridge,
And he's scared of walking in the dark,
It hurts when the rain falls on his skin,
It hurts when the rain falls on his skin.