| The alder trees are listening to songs been sung before
|
| My friend and I collecting skeletons of leaves
|
| Marking tiny piles, and sifting through the weeds
|
| Wind blows the tiny green, tiny green
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| Wind blows the tiny green, helicopter seeds
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| Wind blows the tiny green, tiny green
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| Wind blows the tiny green, helicopter seeds
|
| Oh! |
| wandering in days unfolding
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| With paths fashioned of mud and snakeskin
|
| Oh! |
| wandering in days unfolding
|
| With paths fashioned of mud and snakeskin
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| of mud and snakeskin
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| I think about the ladies who weren’t allowed to sing
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| Sewing all their pretty rows of thread instead of seed
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| And what about the black braided sisters of Marie?
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| We sat upon upon their grinding rock as children used to be
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| Beneath the knotted pine, knotted pine
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| Beneath the knotted pine at the garden’s edge
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| Beneath the knotted pine, knotted pine
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| Beneath the knotted pine at the garden’s edge
|
| Oh, laughing! |
| Little girls clapping
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| And ghosts weaving our hair to baskets
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| Oh, laughing! |
| Little girls clapping
|
| And ghosts weaving our hair to baskets
|
| our hair to baskets
|
| I can hear the elders whispering in words so sweet and low
|
| The alder trees are listening to songs been sung before
|
| My friend and I collecting skeletons of leaves
|
| Making tiny piles and sifting through the weeds
|
| Making tiny piles and sifting through the weeds |