Luyện nghe bài hát Painters

Eighty years, an old lady now, sitting on the front
the clouds roll by
They remind her of her lover, how he left her, and of times ago,
When she used color carelessly, his portrait
A thousand times, or maybe his smile,
Her and her canvas would follow him wherever he go

'Cause they painters and they were painting themselves
A lovely

Oil streaked daisies covered the room walls
He put colored roses in her hair
He said, "Love, I you,
I want to you the mountains, the sunshine,
The too
I want to give you a as beautiful as you are to me"

'Cause I'm a painter and I want to you
A way

So they sat down and made a drawing of love,
They made it an art to by
They painted every passion, every home, created beautiful child
In the winter they weavers of warmth,
In the summer they carpenters of love
thought blue prints were too sad so they made them yellow

And they were and they had painted themselves
A world

Until one day the fell as thick as black oil
And in her she knew something was wrong
She went running through the screaming,
"No God, take him from me!"
But by the time she got there, she feared he had gone
She got to where he lay, water colored roses in his for her
She threw them screaming, "Damn you man, don't leave me
With nothing left behind but these cold paintings, these portraits
To me!"

He said, "Love I only leave a little, try to
I put my soul in this we've created with these four hands
Love, I leave, but only a little, world holds me still
My body may die now, but these are real"
La li lai la li lai la li lai

So many seasons came and many seasons
And times she saw her love's face watering the flowers,
Talking to the trees and to his children,
And when the blew, she knew he was listening,
And how he seemed to laugh along, and how he to hold her
she was crying

'Cause they were and they had painted themselves
A lovely

Eighty years, an old now, sitting on the front porch
Watching the clouds by
They remind her of her lover, how he her, and of times long ago,
When she used color carelessly, painted his
A times, or maybe just his smile,
Her and her would follow him wherever he would go
Yes, she and her canvas still

they are painters and they are painting themselves
A
'Cause they are and they are painting themselves
A world