Hanging like a banner from a frozen charade,
the overcoat shroud haunts the dust cafe,
and a wild eyed black herald went riding away,
with a Peruvian singer at his side.

And high above Machu Picchu, the wild condor flies,
high above the gathering paper lies,
and out on the plains, your ghost horses run,
if only you would recall.

And your black ribbons flutter in the air,
but nobody sees them there,
the highway that runs through
your hands and your hair when you call.

Out on the streets of San Antone,
you told me you wanted to be alone,
so I walked and I talked for miles by myself,
but you know I could not understand.

This song of muscle and this song of bone,
and the faces that come and the faces that go,
and I knew in the end I stand here alone,
when the day finally came.

And your black ribbons flutter in the air,
but nobody sees them there,
the highway that runs through
your hands and your hair when you call.

Pigeons on the roof, doves in the sky,
I can still see the shadows in your blue eyes.
And I wonder now, would you still be surprised,
if I had just said what I meant.

And this light yes it breaks, but this light it never ends,
and that Peruvian singer found a mountain for a friend,
and he climbed up its side like a forgotten face,
and there in the rain he cried.

And your black ribbons flutter in the air,
but nobody sees them there,
the highway that runs through
your hands and your hair when you fall.

And your black ribbons flutter in the air,
but nobody sees them there,
the highway that runs through
your hands and your hair when you call.

Hanging like a banner from frozen charade,
an overcoat shrouds haunts the dust cafe,
and a wild eyed black herald went riding away,
with a Peruvian singer at his side.