The Widow

In the village there's a red house A small building, with whitewashed walls And brown shutters, and garden In the backyard, it's an old widow's home There's a figure in the window In the evenings when the moon's in the sky And she's cradled in the half light As the sun's dipping down to commune with the tide Home, home The familiar aroma of tomes and their dusty decay The old pages And the stories of years that she worried she'd wasted Mmm In the morning there are dewdrops On the branches, and they're touching the light And the fences, they are fading Though her solitude stretches out Long like the light of the spring Slowly waking, gently shaking its frost covered limbs And the tulips, they're forsaking The sweetness of underground sleep And they're catching a glimpse Of the widow With her head in a book stretching out in the afternoon sun Creasing pages At the edge of the world where she's lived all alone for so long Home, home The familiar aroma of tomes and their dusty decay The old pages And the stories of years that she worried she'd wasted Mmm, mmm, mmm