Back there in his green valley the Spring is in the air
And wildflowers in their billions are blooming everywhere
In the fields and by hedgerows where nesting songbirds sing
But unlike the swallow he won't be returning for to greet the northern Spring.
He retains his regional accent from his part of Italy
And a migrant in this Southern Land is all he'll ever be
His wife also Italian in eternal rest she lay
Far from her old home in northern Italy at least twelve thousand miles away.
His son and daughter in their late forties they are no longer young
And his grandchildren now young adults don't speak in the Italian tongue
His younger years in Italy he is happy to recall
Whilst his children and their children are fans of Cricket and Aussie Rules football.
He meets his old Italian friends once or twice a week
And in the tongue of Italy they only ever speak
Yet in this Southern Country he is destined to die
Far south of his northern valley even as the crow does fly.
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