It's knowin'that your door is always open, and your path is free to walk, that makes me tend to leave my sleeping bag rolled up and stashed behind your couch. And it's knowing I'm not shackled by forgotten words and bonds, and the ink stains that have dried upon some line, that keeps you in the backroads by the rivers of my memory, that keeps you ever gentle on my mind. It's not clinging to the rocks and ivy planted on their columns now that binds me, or something that somebody said because they thought we fit together walkin'. It's just knowing that the world will not be cursing or forgiving, when I walk along some railroad track and find, that you're moving on the backroads by the rivers of my memory, and for hours you're just gentle on my mind. Well I dip my cup of soup back from the gurgling crackling caldron in some train yard My beard a roughening coal pile and a dirty hat pulled low across my face Cupped hands 'round a tin can I pretend I hold you to my breast and find that you're waving from the back roads by the river of my memory Ever smiling ever gentle on my mind