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• Artiste: Sleeping At Last
• Titre: North
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We will call this place our home, The dirt in which our roots may grow. Though the storms will push and pull, We will call this place our home. We’ll tell our stories on these walls. Every year, measure how tall. And just like a work of art, We’ll tell our stories on these walls. Let the years we’re here be kind, be kind. Let our hearts, like doors, open wide, open wide. Settle our bones like wood over time, over time. Give us bread, give us salt, give us wine. A little broken, a little new. We are the impact and the glue. Capable of more than we know, We call this fixer upper home. With each year, our color fades. Slowly, our paint chips away. But we will find the strength And the nerve it takes To repaint and repaint and repaint every day. Let the years we’re here be kind, be kind. Let our hearts, like doors, open wide, open wide. Settle our bones like wood over time, over time. Give us bread, give us salt, give us wine. Let the years we’re here be kind, be kind. Let our hearts, like doors, open wide, open wide. Settle our bones like wood over time, over time. Give us bread, give us salt, give us wine. Give us bread, give us salt, give us wine. Smaller than dust on this map Lies the greatest thing we have: The dirt in which our roots may grow And the right to call it home.