|
Old man sits in an apricot tree |
|
He sees i and i sees he |
|
Old man sweet as the fruit he's picking |
|
Knows the rhythm of nature's ticking |
|
Gives a smile of tooth and metal |
|
Winks an eye like a falling petal |
|
Face a furrowed field of life tracks |
|
The years of the living knife |
|
He i love, he i know |
|
Seasons come, so fruitman go |
|
Through the crowd i enter in |
|
See the head of virgin skin |
|
Frail the old man's hand i take |
|
Peace be with you sunday shake |
|
Sweet old man he turns to me |
|
Tries to tell me what's to be |
|
He don't say no words at all |
|
Tears from him like fruit do fall |
|
He i love, he i know |
|
See sons that come, so fruitman go |