All those warm and misty mornings.
While we waited in the hall,
I would gaze beyond the window,
And watch the guti gently fall.
I envied those outside their freedom,
But they had business in the town,
Drifting by outside the window,
As the guti sifted down.
If we ever had our freedom,
It long since dried up with the rain.
In Africa, they may be lucky
To ever see it come again.
Here my life is cold and misty,
All the leaves are wet and brown,
While I look through some distant window,
To watch the guti falling down.
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