As I walk these narrow streets, where a million passing feet have trod before meWith my guitar in my hand, suddenly I realize nobody knows meWhere yesterday the multitude screamed and cried my name out for a songNow the streets are empty, and the crowds they've all gone homeWith the rain on my face, there's no placewhere I belongAnd my whole life consists of a story, a poem, and a songNow the truths I try to tell you are as distant as the moonAnd a hundred years too late, two hundred years too soonI'm a child of this age, locked in the pages of a bookBut when I'm dust and clay, will other people stop to take a look?And will they marvel at the miracles I've performed, and to the heights I aspire?Or will they tear the pages from the book to light a fire?With the rain on my face, there's no place where I belongAnd I'm a child of this age, locked in the pages of a bookAnd will they marvel at the miracles I've performed?And will they tear the pages from the book to light a fire?I'm a child of this age, locked in the pages of a bookBut when I'm dust and clay, will other people stop to take a look?you