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When the day, when the day falls to the light |
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At the end, oh the end of my time |
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I call to the dark take the bones off my back |
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And I chant to the black you were my lady divine |
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'Cause my children are in hiding |
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Mortor and pestle they grind |
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Those songs whistled through white teeth do scuff the days |
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With songs for children to sing |
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Those songs whistled through white teeth do scuff the days |
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With songs for children to sing |
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When the chairs are tucked into the fading song |
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And the silver of their pours has grown long |
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Oh, they call to the dark, take the bones off my back |
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And they chant to the black you were my lady divine |
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And they bloat like a bitter wine in their bellies |
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'Cause the bones have been removed |
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From their hunched over backs |
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And their children are all grown now |
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Mortor and pestle they grind |
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Those songs whistled through white teeth still scuff the days |
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With songs for children to sing |
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Those songs whistled through white teeth still scuff the days |
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With songs for children to sing |
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Those songs for children to sing |
