They call my dressing-gown aubergine,
Black is the ink, the paper white,
And the green of the apple tree drips with rain.

A red button opens the flickering screen -
And my eyes blink at the blinding light!
(They call my dressing-gown aubergine.)

Blow me! That’s Namibia, where I have been,
Where the heat presses down with a giant weight!
(But here rain drips through the tree’s pale green.)

Dry and bleached and still is the scene,
Silence is total, the air is bright.
(They call my dressing-gown aubergine.)

In hundreds of miles not a plant to be seen,
Yet it seemed like home, it felt like fate.
They call my dressing-gown aubergine
And the rain drip-drops through the pale spring green.