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 color carelessly, painted his portrait
A thousand times, or maybe just his smile
Her and her canvas would follow him wherever they would go
'Cause they were painters, and they were painting themselves
A lovely world
Oil-streaked daisies covered the living room walls
He put water-colored roses in her hair
He said, "Love, I love you, I want to give you the mountains
The sunshine, the sunset too
I just want to give you a world as beautiful as you are to me."
'Cause I'm a painter, and I want to paint you
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
'Cause they were painters, and they were painting 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, try to understand
I put my soul in this life we've 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 he love's face watering the flowers
Talking to the trees and singing to his children
When the wind blew, she knew he was listening
And, oh, how he seemed to laugh along, and
How he seemed to hold her when she was crying
'Cause they were painters, and they had painted 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
How he left her, and of times long ago
When she used 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...
'Cause they are painters and they are painting themselves
A lovely world