painters Lyrics

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-- / 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-colored roses in her hair / he said, "love, i love you, i want to give you mountains, 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 carpenters 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 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 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 / and many times she saw her love's face watering the flowers, / 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 remind her of her lover / how he left her and of times long ago, when she used to color 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