| Reticent she returns to the streets | |
| Where she once floated above in hospital sheets | |
| Hands on the walls where small handprints still weigh | |
| With the burden of crimson indelible paints | |
| Where are the hands that once fit these young prints? | |
| What have they grabbed at ever since? | |
| Nights used to be dangerous here | |
| But now the mornings have exceeded her deepest fears | |
| Because that's when the concrete creeps in | |
| And perpetrates with more than the greatest sins | |
| And weighs down on what used to be known as the neighbourhood | |
| Deliberate, slow, destructive defeat | |
| As new corners consolidate the neighbourhood streets | |
| Where are the ones who she stepped with right here | |
| Below the bar, now a bank clad with anonymous steel? | |
| Where are the sounds of the children once heard? | |
| Replaced with new parking and yellowed-out curbs | |
| Now she can only afford to return | |
| For a doctor, an in-law, or a day in the sun | |
| Some still cling, if the building still stands | |
| Some sing liberation from felonious hands | |
| But most will get lost in new peripheral sprawl | |
| Where new handprints signify on old concrete walls | |
| Florescent excuses for light | |
| Steal all the shadows from the nights, from the nights | |
| Parody or progress? You just want to tear it down | |
| As you're standing right in the middle of the wrong side of town | |
| Florescent excuses for light | |
| Steal all the shadows from the nights, from the nights | |
| Parody or progress? You just want to tear it down | |
| As you're standing right in the middle of the wrong side of town |
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