Old Adam

Old Adam, the crow
Is building a home in your field
Where bitterweeds grow
All around the corn
Will you be the father
That drives the thief from your home?
Or let him run wild
As your first born?
«Well I carried the plow
And carved out a home in this world
And I carried the bow
To protect the corn
Now the summer is over
My hands are tired and slow
And I can’t stop loving
My first born."
Old Adam, the crow
Is flying away from your field
And you’ll never know
What makes him run
«I dreamed of my father
Who drove me out of his home
And dreamt of forgiving
My wild son.»