SONG OF THE SON
My father's body, black and dead,
He lies forgotten in the dust.
His spirit, though, it fills my head,
And fills my heart with wanderlust.
He was a farmer, strong and true,
Who worked the fields from dawn till night.
He loved the soil, the morning dew,
And found in labor his delight.
But sickness came, and took him down,
And left him weak, and pale, and thin.
He died a king, without a crown,
His legacy, the life within.
And now I walk this weary earth,
With his strong spirit as my guide.
I'll find my purpose, find my worth,
And keep his memory deep inside.
He lies forgotten in the dust.
His spirit, though, it fills my head,
And fills my heart with wanderlust.
He was a farmer, strong and true,
Who worked the fields from dawn till night.
He loved the soil, the morning dew,
And found in labor his delight.
But sickness came, and took him down,
And left him weak, and pale, and thin.
He died a king, without a crown,
His legacy, the life within.
And now I walk this weary earth,
With his strong spirit as my guide.
I'll find my purpose, find my worth,
And keep his memory deep inside.