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.