Besedila: Geographer. Native son.

I am an apple tree, covered up in your leaves
And no one else can feel my skin
Your head?s a burning 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 love as you doubt

(?) naked as we are in the woods
Without a (?)
(?) Naked as we are in the woods
Without a (?)

This weight it feels so cursed
I hear it calling out, over everything
And over everyone, I saw a 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 love as you doubt

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