He is a good man, my old man,
who walks alone and still has hope.
He is in much pain
from walking so much.
I look at him from a different angle,
and we are so different.
He grew up in a century
with trams and red wine.
Old man, my dear old man—
now he walks slowly
as if resisting the wind.
I am your blood, my old man.
I am your silence and your time.
He still has good eyes
and a solid body.
Age came upon him
without rhyme or reason.
I am younger,
and a man of fewer years—
I carry sorrow inside of me
and I have a story that is timeless.
Old man, my dear old man—
now he walks slowly
as if resisting the wind.
I am your blood, my old man,
I am your silence and your time.
I am your blood, my old man,
I am your silence and your time.