I could be weeping on a dead-end street;
I could be homeless with no place to sleep;
I could be a renegade unafraid to take whatever I desired;
I could be a heartless hit man never hesitating to aim or fire;
I could be a revolutionary looting in a land of greed;
I could be a soldier nearly dead in the pangs of defeat;
But no matter where I'm at or what becomes of me,
When I remember your eyes beneath soft October skies,
I'll only know undiminished warmth to have made your acquaintance.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.