Hands Like Houses - Antarctica (Post-Hardcore.RU) | Текст песни

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• Hands Like Houses
• Antarctica (Post-Hardcore.RU)

Antarctica

Father, we fled your house of grey.
We ran from home to seek a place
Where our bodies would never grow.

Dreamer, child, be cautious of this world.
She has an appetite for boys and girls
And she’s hungry for your soul.

Little boys with dreams of paper planes
Were never meant to scrape the sky.
Keep your feet on the ground kid,
Only birds were meant to fly.

Little boys with dreams of paper planes
Were never meant to scrape the sky.
Keep your head from the clouds kid,
Keep your wings,
Always keep them by your side.

Before you fly you’ll fall,
Before you walk you’ll crawl.
Before you fly you’ll fall,
Before you walk you’ll crawl.

You’ve no need to stitch your shadow
To your heels. No, not this time.

Son you’ll walk with no whisper, no sound.
Only the feet of the heavy hearted
Are held to the ground.

You’ve no need to draw the curtains son,
Throw them wide. Cross the borders between
The never and the night.

Find the twinkle in your smile,
Chase it on ‘til morning,
Past the second star to the right.

Little boys with dreams of paper planes
Were never meant to scrape the sky.
Keep your feet on the ground kid,
Only birds were meant to fly.

Little boys with dreams of paper planes
Were never meant to scrape the sky.
Keep your head from the clouds kid,
Keep your wings,
Always keep them by your side.

We’ll be the smoke curling on the still.
The airship captains;
We wait for sun to brush the hills.

Son, I share your windward dreams,
To soar from this little town
Of shacked up windows and swinging doors.
The rafters creak and the floorboards groan
While the shadows dance to the tapping of my toes.

There’s nothing left for us but altitude.
We’ll be the kings of the air.
There’s nothing left for us but altitude.
We’ll be the kings of the air.

Stolen, by the wind that turns the leaves to razors.
Holding just a string, our twine and our paper
Lost to the breeze.

Stolen, by the wind that turns the leaves to razors.
Holding just a string, our twine and our paper
Lost to the breeze.

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