Of a hut,
With walls and a roof
Made of mud,
Than to slumber in fine linnen,
In a palace or a villa,
Whose walls are painted with blood.
If you think that all that glitters
Can be counted at the bank,
Then you're in, my friend, for quite a big surprise;
When you wake up in the morning,
To see the seeds you've sown,
And it's emptiness that hits you 'tween the eyes.
We're here and gone,
Just like a dream,
And what, after all do you find?
The seeds that you planted
Have blossomed and all grown,
Into what you see
Inside your children's eyes.