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I see him again sitting on his old stone bench
Rolling his cigarette on the tips of his ten fingers
He was simple and good and he was my father
My father, my father, my father, my father, my father... to me
He was a carpenter from the smallest village
That we meet there before the high country
He taught me life as one builds his table
My father, my father, my father, my father, my father... to me
I know he did something stupid
Some evenings he talked about the Middle East
He had even packed the suitcase
But he came back for me crying
He knew how to make lavender cabinets
Where newlyweds would keep their sheets white
And where the old married couple would store their legend
My father, my father, my father, my father, my father... to me
Oh I know he did something stupid
Some evenings he talked about the Middle East
He had even packed the suitcase
But he came back for me crying
I see him standing again as he was and remains
Behind the workbench of the poor house
With only shavings on his jacket
My father, my father, my father, my father, my father... to me
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