On A Tuesday In Amsterdam Long Ago

A picture of Amsterdam, bare trees under glass, Framed in the gray and white afternoon light, Of a winter long past, When I was a riser, to Dublin I'd roam, She was a bareback rider, some miles from home. Come back to me, Come back to me, Come back to me, Come back to me. She's a carnival diver, hung in the sky, Cutting through time like a memory, Strung on a wire, The color of anything, fades in the air, She is the film of a book of the story, Of the smell of her hair. Come back to me, Come back to me, Come back to me, Come back to me. When everything's over and everything's clear, When everyone's older and no one is here, I try to remember a girl on a wire, Tumbling and diving above Stephen's Green, Like a kite on the air. Come back to me, Come back to me, Come back to me, Come back to me, Come back to me, Oh come back to me, Come back to me, Come back to me, Come back to me, Come back to me.