Remembering is not the same As looking back Windows I pass on away and look into Sometimes I'm walking by and think that I should stop And see who's home After all this time, there is only so much I can say for sure Experience has taken me Into her arms Like a mother of my own making Looking out the window is not the same As opening the door I pass under the light, or is it that which has been moving me Even here After all this time, there is only so much I can say for sure Experience has taken me Into her arms Like a mother of my own making