Do not surround me with wreathes of flowers
Nor place upon my body the signs of a fetish
Nor crescent, cross, phallus or sun
But bury me in an apple orchard
That I might touch your lips again
Bury me in an apple orchard
That I might touch your lips again

Look at me when you glance
At the spring apple flower
Speak of me into a breeze
Blowing over your fingers
Taste of me when your lips taste the froth
Foaming out of the apple meat

Do not surround me with wreathes of flowers
Nor place upon my body the signs of a fetish
Nor crescent, cross, phallus or sun
But bury me in an apple orchard
That I might touch your lips again
Bury me in an apple orchard
That I might touch your lips again