歌曲 | Sellers of Flowers |
歌手 | Regina Spektor |
专辑 | Remember Us to Life |
下载 | Image LRC TXT |
作词 : Regina Spektor | |
作曲 : Regina Spektor | |
The sellers of flowers buy up old roses | |
They pull off dead petals, like old heads of lettuce | |
And sell 'em as new ones, for cheaper and fairer | |
But they die by the morning, so who is the winner | |
Not the roses, not the buyers, not the sellers, maybe winter | |
'Cause winters coming, soon after summer | |
It runs faster, faster, chasing off autumn | |
We go from a warm sun to only a white sun | |
We go from a large sun to only a small one | |
When I was a small girl, I walked through the market | |
Holding my dad's hand, mitten gloved hand | |
That night there were roses, lit up in glass boxes | |
The heat lamps would keep them from freezing in winter | |
We never bought them but somebody must have | |
Maybe they made it or maybe they froze up | |
Before any person had put them in water | |
And hoped that they'd still be alive by the morning | |
Who's the winner | |
Not the roses, not the buyers, not the sellers | |
Not the tellers, of the stories | |
Not the fathers, not their children | |
Not those walking on a dark night | |
Through a memory they're forgetting | |
Who's the winner, who's the winner | |
Maybe winter, maybe winter | |
Somebody steps on a light through a tunnel | |
They're holding a piece of their mind in the rubble | |
Hold on, I won't let go, I want to know | |
But no one lives long enough to see the outcome | |
To know any answers, to know what the point is | |
To know if the winter ever came closer | |
Than on that night when I walked with my father | |
A small piece of ice, lodged in my mind | |
Lodged in my thoughts, lodged in my eyes | |
Cold all around, cold all around | |
Warm from inside, warm from inside | |
Who's the winner | |
Not the roses, not the buyers, not the sellers | |
Not the tellers, of the stories | |
Not the fathers, not their children | |
Who's the winner | |
Not the roses, not the buyers, not the sellers | |
Not the tellers, of the stories | |
Not the fathers, not their children | |
Not those walking on a dark night | |
Through a memory they're forgetting | |
Who's the winner, who's the winner | |
Maybe winter, maybe winter | |
Who's the winner, who's the winner | |
Maybe winter, maybe winter | |
Who's the winner, who's the winner |
zuo ci : Regina Spektor | |
zuo qu : Regina Spektor | |
The sellers of flowers buy up old roses | |
They pull off dead petals, like old heads of lettuce | |
And sell ' em as new ones, for cheaper and fairer | |
But they die by the morning, so who is the winner | |
Not the roses, not the buyers, not the sellers, maybe winter | |
' Cause winters coming, soon after summer | |
It runs faster, faster, chasing off autumn | |
We go from a warm sun to only a white sun | |
We go from a large sun to only a small one | |
When I was a small girl, I walked through the market | |
Holding my dad' s hand, mitten gloved hand | |
That night there were roses, lit up in glass boxes | |
The heat lamps would keep them from freezing in winter | |
We never bought them but somebody must have | |
Maybe they made it or maybe they froze up | |
Before any person had put them in water | |
And hoped that they' d still be alive by the morning | |
Who' s the winner | |
Not the roses, not the buyers, not the sellers | |
Not the tellers, of the stories | |
Not the fathers, not their children | |
Not those walking on a dark night | |
Through a memory they' re forgetting | |
Who' s the winner, who' s the winner | |
Maybe winter, maybe winter | |
Somebody steps on a light through a tunnel | |
They' re holding a piece of their mind in the rubble | |
Hold on, I won' t let go, I want to know | |
But no one lives long enough to see the outcome | |
To know any answers, to know what the point is | |
To know if the winter ever came closer | |
Than on that night when I walked with my father | |
A small piece of ice, lodged in my mind | |
Lodged in my thoughts, lodged in my eyes | |
Cold all around, cold all around | |
Warm from inside, warm from inside | |
Who' s the winner | |
Not the roses, not the buyers, not the sellers | |
Not the tellers, of the stories | |
Not the fathers, not their children | |
Who' s the winner | |
Not the roses, not the buyers, not the sellers | |
Not the tellers, of the stories | |
Not the fathers, not their children | |
Not those walking on a dark night | |
Through a memory they' re forgetting | |
Who' s the winner, who' s the winner | |
Maybe winter, maybe winter | |
Who' s the winner, who' s the winner | |
Maybe winter, maybe winter | |
Who' s the winner, who' s the winner |
zuò cí : Regina Spektor | |
zuò qǔ : Regina Spektor | |
The sellers of flowers buy up old roses | |
They pull off dead petals, like old heads of lettuce | |
And sell ' em as new ones, for cheaper and fairer | |
But they die by the morning, so who is the winner | |
Not the roses, not the buyers, not the sellers, maybe winter | |
' Cause winters coming, soon after summer | |
It runs faster, faster, chasing off autumn | |
We go from a warm sun to only a white sun | |
We go from a large sun to only a small one | |
When I was a small girl, I walked through the market | |
Holding my dad' s hand, mitten gloved hand | |
That night there were roses, lit up in glass boxes | |
The heat lamps would keep them from freezing in winter | |
We never bought them but somebody must have | |
Maybe they made it or maybe they froze up | |
Before any person had put them in water | |
And hoped that they' d still be alive by the morning | |
Who' s the winner | |
Not the roses, not the buyers, not the sellers | |
Not the tellers, of the stories | |
Not the fathers, not their children | |
Not those walking on a dark night | |
Through a memory they' re forgetting | |
Who' s the winner, who' s the winner | |
Maybe winter, maybe winter | |
Somebody steps on a light through a tunnel | |
They' re holding a piece of their mind in the rubble | |
Hold on, I won' t let go, I want to know | |
But no one lives long enough to see the outcome | |
To know any answers, to know what the point is | |
To know if the winter ever came closer | |
Than on that night when I walked with my father | |
A small piece of ice, lodged in my mind | |
Lodged in my thoughts, lodged in my eyes | |
Cold all around, cold all around | |
Warm from inside, warm from inside | |
Who' s the winner | |
Not the roses, not the buyers, not the sellers | |
Not the tellers, of the stories | |
Not the fathers, not their children | |
Who' s the winner | |
Not the roses, not the buyers, not the sellers | |
Not the tellers, of the stories | |
Not the fathers, not their children | |
Not those walking on a dark night | |
Through a memory they' re forgetting | |
Who' s the winner, who' s the winner | |
Maybe winter, maybe winter | |
Who' s the winner, who' s the winner | |
Maybe winter, maybe winter | |
Who' s the winner, who' s the winner |