Imagine a field,
now imagine a man,
standing silent,
looking at his hands.
All around spring and its scent.
All around never ending lands.

The old oak stands (oh)
Winds and rain he withstands.

He grows gra-apes,
he mixes good wine.
His wrinkles have the shape
of a long painful line.
He never cared 'bout the world,
just lights a fire, if it gets cold.

The old oak asks why
Little men are passing by.

Sometimes a woman
comes around there.
They don’t speak,
each one gets his own share.
Stars are shining,
sun is bright.
Darkness falls
every night.

He looks in her eyes,
she stands and smiles.

Words are worthless,
an oak tree grows in silence
and in silence dies.
A field requires patience,
refuses lies.
Come back, don't fear,
the trees will know
if I wont be here.

He looks in her eyes,
she stands and smiles.

Leaves are rotting slowly in the rain,
raises fog from fields, sleeps the grain.
Empty's the fireplace, ashes're cold
burnt is the candle, lifes's on hold.

Earth gives life,
Earth takes it away,
sadly sings a fay.

The woman comes back,
the door is open
grass grows on the track.

Not much to say,
she understands
spring's running down the strand.

She asks the old oak
the reasons why
we are not meant to stay.

(But) trees don't speak nor pray.

None ever met the sower again.
What happened is easy to guess.
But if you've the heart of a child
a spirit simple and clean
you can see him dancing happy and wild
with the southern wind.

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