歌词
作词 : Imagine Bunny 幻想邦尼
作曲 : Imagine Bunny 幻想邦尼
编曲 : Imagine Bunny 幻想邦尼
A woman in white once asked for a roof,
the shrine fell down, the winters grew long.
Grandma’ s square face, one clouded eye,
blue coat, black cloth binding the dawn.
Gold on the beam no hand could reach,
names on the wind like grain in a sieve—
we learned to eat from empty bowls,
and teach the living how to live.
“ I won’ t let you die,” he ran with a child,
west- facing roots and a match to the hill.
Ash took the scholar, ash took the hands,
the mountain learned a terrible skill.
Walls built into the back of night,
wolves counting doors with their breath—
a house that saves one candle’ s heat,
and plays its card against death.
Iron bowl, hold the snow,
red lantern, climb the trees.
Paper money turns to birds,
carrying news on winter breeze.
If the wheel remembers light,
if the fox has left the town,
let our laughter be the grain,
and our dead the fertile ground.
Children traded to kinder rooms,
some grew thin as a little bell’ s back.
One crossed graves to come home twice,
bare feet learning the map of lack.
The river kept its radio on,
the bridges hummed of other years—
I planted an antenna in the mound,
so grandpa could watch the evening news.
Iron bowl, hold the snow,
red lantern, climb the trees.
Paper money turns to birds,
carrying news on winter breeze.
If the wheel remembers light,
if the fox has left the town,
let our laughter be the grain,
and our dead the fertile ground.
Poker hands in a warm- lit room,
sewing machines that never came.
Bicycles riding the unborn road,
unmarked stones learning our names.
Time is a kiln, breath is clay,
souls are soybeans threshed at dusk—
spin the flail and sing the chaff,
feed the moon with what we trust.
An orphan fed us iron rice,
wood- shavings snowed from his sleeves.
Spring came in as a woman’ s voice,
scrubbing the floor, turning the leaves.
We carry them up the hill of years,
red lamps swinging in our hands—
some nights faith is a paper ash,
some nights doubt is holy land.
Iron bowl, hold the snow,
red lantern, climb the trees.
Paper money turns to birds,
carrying news on winter breeze.
If the wheel remembers light,
if the fox has left the town,
may our hunger bloom to bread,
and our laughing seed the ground.
A little tree on an older grave,
north wind tuning every bone.
When the broadcast ends, the stars remain
we walk the hill, and bring them home.