These hands of mine, they hold more than wistful wishes
These hands of mine, they can dance and spin and scream aloud.
Wider and deeper than empty echoes in bottleneck bottles
The glass cuts deep, but the whispers cut deeper.
They tell me harder
more and more, further and farther
The crystal skies and December smoke tell me to forget them
The heart's lullaby tells me to remember the better ones
These hands of mine, the blisters and calluses will only strengthen their grip
I squeeze tighter, closer.
They took my voice
and replaced it with snowfall's touch
They took my eyes
and filled its void with rainy day clouds
It's all alright.
They can have them
These hands of mine, they will speak and see for me.
Mother tells me
I have climbed high enough
Come home, baby girl, come home.
Empty echoes in bottleneck bottles
These hands of mine, they shatter the glass
and it rains. Oh like the stars from above.
Mama tells baby girl she won't catch the stars for her
You'll have to grab them yourself
These hand of mine, they build a ladder from words and scars
from midnight lessons and last minute review
from the strach of pen upon paper and the tap of fingers upon keys
from restless nights and dreams of tomorrow.
And up she climbs, higher and higher
her breath turns to smoke
her fingers curl tighter
the whispers grow fainter
And I wonder
What are the stars to me
If I have crystals skies that glitter and shine.