And you follow the blackbird home, through the early winter snow.
Your footprints track you home through the grass.
And you ache just to smell her clothes, and her cooking down on the stove.
You see her face in everyone you pass.

'Cause you search for years but you lose everything you find.
There's braille for the deaf and signposts, for the blind.
There's heaven for the cruel but the devil waits for the kind.

And you walk down to her window
And you press your face against the glass
Only to find that she is happy in his arms.