Snaking through the Atlas mountains, almost imaginary ridges fade into the distance. At 2225m plunging slopes, tumbling waterfalls, roadside stalls. Stopping, a tide of salesmen washes over us: "hey monsieur, whooee, who much, what is your price?" Strangely it grows colder as we descend. Down, down, down we wind to the plains of Marrakesh.
Quondam was I
But now my lonely soulSearching for some final place.
A drink of love To quench my empty heart,
Wash the dust
From my travel weary limbs.
Looking
For a passion to share,
A joy to hold.
That's all I want
From my travel weary limbs.
Looking
For a passion to share,
A joy to hold.
That's all I want
The truth be told.
