The aged have seen off many years,
The wise ones understand —
The orchard’s slumbering, and cold,
As is the land —
I wish that I bore other fruit,
But from this, there’s no fleeing —
The tree that I was born to be
I’ll end up
Being
The aged have seen off many years,
The wise ones understand —
The orchard’s slumbering, and cold,
As is the land —
I wish that I bore other fruit,
But from this, there’s no fleeing —
The tree that I was born to be
I’ll end up
Being