He was born in the summer of his 27th year, coming home to a place he'd never been before. He left yesterday behind him, you might say he was born again, you might say he found a key for every door. When he first came to the mountains, his life was far away on the road and hanging by a song. But the string's already broken and he doesn't really care, it keeps changing fast, and it don't last for long.
And the Colorado Rocky Mountain high, I've seen it raining fire in the sky. The shadows from the starlight are softer than a lullaby. Rocky Mountain high, Colorado. Rocky Mountain high.
A Song's Best Friend: The Very Best of John Denver
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