Painters

Eighty years, and 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 colour carelessly, painted his portrait
A thousand times - or mayve just his smile -
And she and her canvas would follow him wherever he would go
'Cause they were painters, and they were painting themselves
A lovely world
Oil streaked daisies covered the living room wall
He put water coloured roses in her hair
He said: "Love, I love youm I want to give you mountiains, the sunshine, the sunset too
I want to give you everything as beautiful as you are to me
'Cause they were painters, and they were painting themselves
A lovely world
So they sat down and made a drawing of their love, an art to live by
They painted every passion, every home, created every beautiful child
In the winter they were weavers of warmth
In summer they were carpentors of love
They thought blue prints 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 that 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 coloured 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 leave, but only a little, try to understand
I put my soul in this life we 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
Ans many times she saw her love's face watering the lowers
Talking to the trees and singing to his children
And when the wind blew she knew he was listening
And how he seemed to laugh along, and how he seemed to hold her when she was crying
'Cause they were painters, and they were painting themselves
A lovely world

Eighty years, an old lady now, sitting on the front porch
Watching the clouds roll by, they reminded her of her lover
How he left her and of times long ago when she used colour carelessly
Painted his portrait a thousand times, or maybe just his smile
And she and her canvas would follow him wherever he would go
Yes, she and her canvas still follow
Because they are painters, and they are painting themselves. 
A lovely world.