I sit beneath my orange tree,
Chewing a strand of wheat.
I sit beneath my orange tree,
My thoughts are incomplete.

There’s oh so much going on, in my life.
I just don’t know what to do.
Should I leave it behind,
my orange tree?

It’s been there when I've needed silence.
And for when I was in despair.
But over these years it’s been by me,
it’s always been my chair.

My chair that I could cry on,
My chair that would comfort me.
And if I was ever in need,
I’d go to where my tree would be.

And now they've come to take it from me.
I want so desperately to say no.
But as I leave I hear voice,
A calm little whisper saying
‘go’.