I was born buried deep in the snow
I was born gripped tightly in chains
I learned to build raging fires
but the sting of the iron remains
The world loves a beautiful arsonist
The world loves a singer of flames
It celebrates those who can set it ablaze but
It notices nothing of chains
Where will you be tomorrow
if the feeling finds you out,
discovers you’ve been on the run
for too long?
Will you be running back
to where the cattails grow,
to the falling snow,
to your quietest moments
wrapped up and
thrown into the sea?
Will you give my best
when you get there,
to the places I can’t go;
will you be there tomorrow
where the cattails grow?