Here I am, I roam these streets.
I close my eyes and see
Visions of children playing,
But they are just ghosts
Of a life I used to have.

Here I am, I owned these streets.
Life was better then, but
The times have gotten hard and
The life I wanted then seems like
Just a dream in a dream-catcher.

Here I am, I praised streets.
I admit, I am no saint;
Peter won't be calling my name.
This far down repentance seems
Like a hope I do not know.

Here I am, I missed these streets.
I never knew anything more.
Now it seems so silly to think
I could call anywhere else my home.
My home never seemed so far away.