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Ours are homes we never chose |
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Far from anyone we know |
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Taps with every faucet on |
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Lamps that light an empty lawn |
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So we took what we inherited |
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And we dug a hole to bury it |
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All our property and marriages |
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All we wanted was a narrative |
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That was all ours |
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That was all ours |
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Ours are arms that never rest |
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Carved from countless heavy steps |
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Stairs with every stringer worn |
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Wine where they have wound before |
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So we threw away the atlases |
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All the heavy ones they handed us |
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They called us everything but savages |
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But we found a couple passages |
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That were all ours |
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That were all ours |
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So we spoke in lower registers |
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From the merchants and the ministers |
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We were little more than whisperers |
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But we found a couple listeners |
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They were all ours |
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They were all ours |
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They were all ours |
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They were all ours |
