This man that moves in front of me,
He must know something more than I.

His steps are sure, his limbs are spry,
He’s not afraid to say goodbye –

To the noise of his native metropolis,
Or the bumbling bees amidst Versailles.

He’s searching night and day, of course,
For the summer song of the harvest fly.

See me, I’m just an average guy,
Who spends his time in the countryside.

So as I stumble on concrete streets,
The city beats in warm July;

While the traveling man’s gaze on the fading sky
Obscures his view of the lonely cowpie.