He sets his face back towards the river
All these deserts have left him dry
By the banks he sets the table
So hold the water, and pour the wine
Bruised a little from the taking
Bruised some more from giving back
Not sure he’s going or defending
Not sure he’s coming or attack
He stood his ground and played the catcher
He saved and lost some in his time
Tonight he walks from rye to river
So hold the water, pour the wine
Like Walking Trees 