Luyện nghe bài hát Painters

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

'Cause were painters and they were painting themselves
A lovely

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

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

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

And they were painters and they had painted
A lovely

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

He said, "Love I leave a little, try to understand
I put my soul in this life we've created with these hands
Love, I leave, but a little, this 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 went
And many times she saw her 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
When she was

'Cause they painters and they had painted themselves
A lovely

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 carelessly, painted his portrait
A times, or maybe just his smile,
Her and her canvas would follow him wherever he go
Yes, she and her canvas still

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