(Al Stewart)


On a morning from a Bogart movie

in a country where they turned back time

you go strolling through the crowd like

Peter Lorre contemplating a crime.

She comes out of the sun in a silk dress

running like a water color in the rain.

Don't bother asking for explanations.

She'll just tell you that she came

in the Year of the Cat.

She doesn't give you time for questions

as she locks up you arm in hers.

And you follow 'til your sense of

which direction completely disappears.

By the blue-tiled walls near the market stalls

there's a hidden door she leads you to.

"These days," she says, "I feel my life just

like a river running through

the Year of the Cat."

Well she looks at you so cooly

and her eyes shine like the moon

in the sea.

She comes in incense and pathchouli

so you take her to find what's

waiting inside

the Year of the Cat.

Well morning comes and you're still with her

and the bus and the tourists are gone.

And you've thrown away your choice and

lost your ticket so you have to stay on.

But the drumbeat strains of the night

remain in the rhythm of the newborn day.

You know sometime you're bound to leave her

but for now you're gonna stay

in the Year of the Cat.