Lyrics

Well, I’ve left my roots in more than half a dozen places
Between here and the Pyrenees
And I’ve worn out my soles and broken both my laces
As if I had become the walking tree

But what are all these roots for if they’re constantly uprooted?
What value in the travel in the toil?
Well, my spirit is a pilgrim and it always keeps me moving
and digging just to find the perfect soil

What are all these roots for anyway
If they never have the time to dig in?
Well, I stand by what I said when I left West Virginia
I said I hope I never feel this way again

So who’s the gardener of my feeble leaves and branches?
Who rips me from the dirt year after year?
Well, I’m afraid that I have had my share of chances
That the gardener greets me daily in the mirror

So, maybe I’m a sadist or maybe I’m a wanderer
Or maybe I’m a migrant bird
Or maybe I’m a pilgrim with a mind made to ponder
And feet made to tread across the world

What are all these roots for anyway
If they never have the time to dig in?
Well I stand by what I said when I left North Carolina
I said I hope I never feel this way again

But what a gift to live a life with things worth missing
Oh, what a blessing in the ache
And, oh, how clear when we hear that train a-whistling
Become all of the ones we have at stake

What are all these roots for anyway
if they never have the time to dig in?
Well I stand by what I said when I left Old Castilia
I said I hope someday I’ll feel this way again