Translate to
There are cracked doors
Dry pita crosses
And in peeling eaves
They hang watered cobs from the pool
And I sit at the old table
In front of the landscape
To contemplate, to run your shop
And flow with the afternoon
There are upon the doors that have lived
Other hands, other frictions, other sayings
And in its unpainted veins
Dignity of warm nook, of cave, of tavern
It's your kitchen, your little store
Ah, ah, ah-ah-ah-ah
Ah, ah, ah-ah-ah-ah
And I sit at the old table
In front of the landscape
To contemplate, to run the shop
And flow with the afternoon
And I sit at the old table
In front of the landscape
To contemplate the valley, to run the shop
and spend the afternoon
