Thursday morning, sweep the dawn in
You're over the fields of Saskatchewan.
I miss you like a city, like a long-lost limb.
And when you come home again
We will lie in the gutter, staring up at the stars.
I will pull you closer than a shut door
To keep you warm.
And I'll hum a lull-a-bye.
Everyman is king out west.
Is this true?
I've never been, though I told you different once.
I've heard whispered stories from neighbours
About streets paved with gold.
Don't let it dazzle you.
I can't put you in a mansion.
I can only give you this song.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem