I was born by the East River outlet, Always pictured the city in smell. So I never had mind to travel uptown It always fucked-up the view of the stars. For all the strings and the brass there is a longer silence, For every fear there's a moment of joy. And I'm sorry I'm sorry for breaking the stems of the flowers On the table where we ate our meals. How you conduct this orchestra With a wave of your hand or a flick of your wrist. This house is not your home my son, This house is not your home. For all the strings and the brass there is a longer silence, All the fear holds a moment of joy. My arrow is weaker than you would expect, I would never hurt you. For my heart is expansive as a sprawling seascape, And my mind is the wide open sky.