I used to live in New York City,
Everything there was dark and dirty,
Outside my window was a steeple
With a clock that always said twelve-thirty.
Young girls are coming to the canyon,
And in the mornings I can see them walkin',
I can no longer keep my blinds drawn,
And I can't keep myself from talkin'.
At first so strange to feel so friendly,
To say «Good mornin'» and really mean it,
To feel these changes happenin' in me,
But not to notice till I feel it.
Cloudy waters cast no reflection,
Images of beauty lie there stagnant,
Vibrations bounce in no direction,
But lie there shattered into fragments.