Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Painters, artist - Jewel.
Date of issue: 19.11.2020
Song language: English
Painters |
Eighty years, an old lady now, sitting on the front porch |
Watching the clouds roll by |
They remind her of her lover, how he left her, and of times long ago |
When she used to color carelessly, painted his portrait |
A thousand times, or maybe just his smile |
Her and her canvas would follow him wherever he would go |
'Cause they were painters and they were painting themselves |
A lovely world |
Oil-streaked daisies covered the living room wall |
He put water-colored roses in her hair |
He said, «Love, I love you, I want to give you mountains, the sunshine |
The sunset too |
I just want to give you everything as beautiful as |
You… are…to…me.» |
'Cause they were painters and they were painting themselves |
A lovely world |
So they sat down and made a drawing of their love |
They made it an art to live by |
They painted every passion, every home, created every beautiful child |
In winter they were weavers of warmth |
In summer they were carpenters of love |
They thought blueprints were too sad so they made them yellow |
And they were painters and they had painted themselves |
A lovely… world |
Until one day the rain fell as thick as black oil |
And in her heart she knew something was wrong |
She went running through the orchard screaming |
«No God, don’t take him from me!» |
But by the time she got there, she feared |
He already had gone |
She got to where he lay, water-colored roses in his hands for her |
She threw them down screaming, «Damn you man, don’t leave me |
With nothing left behind, but these cold paintings, these cold portraits |
To remind me!» |
He said, «Love I only leave a little, but try to understand |
I put my soul in this life we created with these four hands |
Love, I leave, but only a little, this world holds me still |
My body may die now, but these paintings are real.» |
So many seasons came and many seasons went |
And many times she saw her love’s face |
Watering the flowers, talking to the trees, and singing to his children |
And when the wind blew, she knew he was listening |
And how he seemed to laugh along, and how he seemed to hold her |
When she was crying |
'Cause they were painters and they had painting themselves |
A lovely… world |
Eighty years, an old lady now, sitting on the front porch |
Watching the clouds roll by, they remind her of her lover and how he left her |
And of times long ago, when she would color carelessly |
Painted his portrait a thousand times, or maybe just his smile |
Her and her canvas would follow him wherever they would go |
Yes, her and her canvas still follow |
Because they are painters and they are painting themselves |
A lovely world |