Home from the forest

Oh, the neon lights were flashing and the icy wind did blow,
the water seeped into his shoes and the drizzle turned to snow.
His eyes were red, his hopes were dead and the wine was running low
and the old man came home from the forest.

His tears fell on the sidewalk as he stumbled in the street,
a dozen faces stopped to stare but no one stopped to speak.
For his castle was a hallway and the bottle was his friend
and the old man stumbled in from the forest.

Up a dark and dingy staircase, the old man made his way,
his ragged coat around him as upon his cot he lay.
And he wondered how it happened that he ended up this way
getting lost like a fool in the forest.

And as he lay there sleeping, a vision did appear
upon his mantle shining, a face of one so dear,
who had loved him in the springtime of a long-forgotten year
when the wildflowers did bloom in the forest.

She touched his grizzled fingers and she called him by his name
and then he heard the joyful sound of children at their games
in an old house on a hillside in some forgotten town
where the river runs down from the forest.

With a mighty roar the big jets soar above the canyon streets
and the con men con but life goes on for the city never sleeps
and to an old forgotten soldier, the dawn will come no more
for the old man has come home from the forest.