Tim Buckley - Morning glory

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
And as he neared, I felt the ancient fear
That he had come to wound my door and jeer
But I waited in my fleeting house.

"Oh, tell me stories", I called to the Hobo
"Stories of old", I smiled at the Hobo
"Stories of cold", I wept to the Hobo
And I waited in 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, it's just too high a climb"
And he walked away my fleeting house.

    Velho companheiro, procuro-te pois dói-me a falta da tua voz, das tuas palavras e dos tempos em que nos levantávamos manhã cedo e eu escrevia as tuas canções nos meus songbooks. Junto ao café que arrefecia, avaliávamos as tuas metáforas colados à capa de Goodbye and Hello e tu sorrias. Hoje, pego na guitarra para as cantar e sinto a ternura que deixáste. Tal como nesta canção, tu foste um dos meus vagabundos que foi embora cedo demais.