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Native Son

de Geographer

I am an apple tree
Covered up in your leaves
And no one else can feel my sin

Your head's a burdened cloud
That never lets it out
Until the desert cries your name

But now
My hands are the words in your mouth
My fingers are the days that you count
My eyes are the lovers you doubt

Fortune's fools
Naked as we are
In the woods
With heaven dropping stars
Fortune's fools
Naked as we are
In the woods
With heaven dropping

This weight it feels so cursed
I hear it calling out
Over everything but you

And over everyone
I saw the native son
Waiting to hear my voice too

But now
My hands are the words in your mouth
My fingers are the days that you count
My eyes are the lovers you doubt

And over everyone
I saw the native son
Waiting to hear my voice too

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