These desert shrubs cannot compare
To the ancient pines of my home before
If my Lord wills – I will return
I shall be raised up from that place
My years are hard and they’ve been few
Throughout these dunes I sojourn on
I feel naught but nostalgic
Every time I see your face
A cool breeze in this barren land
Is not enough to hear your breath
Another woman I would not touch
In the hope to take your hand
Oh may this be more than nostalgia
An antique frame – historic thrills
I’ll work my years, I’ll carry on
For the day I’m coming home