On the dark edge of the riverbank I got down on my knees In the boney shadows of the naked sycamore trees And with both my trembling hands I made a cup And I stretched out my skinny arms to fill it up
And as I watched the tiny whirlpools cross my palm I cradled my own dark reflection and its starry crown And the bright sharp sickle moon hung high over my head And I felt like the thirsty lost son come back from the dead
And when my trembling cup was full to the brim I raised that trembling cup up to my chin
And with greedy gulps I drank it down with ease In the boney shadows of the naked sycamore trees
