Luyện nghe bài hát Painters

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

'Cause they were painters and they were themselves
A lovely

Oil streaked daisies the living room walls
He put water 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 and I want to paint you
A way

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

And were painters and they had painted themselves
A world

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

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

So many seasons and many seasons went
And many times she saw her love's 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 world

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

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