(R. Matsuo)
Some people speak of an old man, but can't recall his name.
His travels to an island are his only claim to fame
He tells us tales where dancing spirits play the passionate stage
Where only lovers seem to get it, and time is not of age
He speaks of sailing the ocean, drunk on delusions and wine
Half way to his heaven, ashore on a virgin isle
Where all the natives run out to meet him, they recognize his face
As a god or a holy has-been, he swears he knows this place
Chorus
The old man tells his story.
My old friend, I believe
Not about fame or glory.
Just about an old man and the sea
Bathed in a pool of pleasure, ate the fruits of lust
A mind thinking this must be heaven, but a heart that did not trust
He knew his life was never meant to be, without inspired intent
His weary soul compelled him back to sea, wondering what all this meant
Chorus
