All I see turns to brown, as the sun burns the ground. And my eyes fill with sand, as I scan this wasted land....trying to find, trying to find where I've been. Oh, pilot of the storm who leaves no trace, like thoughts inside a dream. Heed the path that led me to that place, yellow desert stream. My Shangri La beneath the summer moon, I will return again. Sure as the dust that floats high in June when movin' through Kashmir.