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He came from the mountains to our little town |
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And he never spoke a word. |
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But he played every day in a lovely way |
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Little tunes I had never heard. |
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When he played his flute |
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His eyes seemed to be like mirrors of times gone by. |
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I don't know if I saw what I should not see |
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But I looked right into his heart. |
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I looked right into his heart. |
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I found out one evening only by chance |
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Where he spent his lonely nights. |
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There he slept in the church on the marble floor |
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And his flute lay by his side. |
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As I woke him up and said |
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Won't you come to my house where it's nice and warm |
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He said |
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Please let me be, for I am not freeAnd I don't wanna break your heart |
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. |
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I don't wanna break your heart |
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. |
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When early one morning I came to the place |
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Where he used to play his flute. |
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He was gone |
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but a song that will never die |
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Seemed to linger on in the sky. |
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He's an Indio boy |
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And his folks |
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far away |
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they are praying |
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Indio boy come home when you are a man. |
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He's an Indio Boy |
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and he longs for the girl who is waitinc |
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Indio Boy |
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come home as soon as you can. |
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He's an Indio Boy till the day he will be a man. |
