Текст пісні
I wrote you a bookcase,
I spent all day on it.
With robins upon it and ferns all upon,
To say sorry.
Of timber from the forest with sigils drawn on it,
An old promise.
You wrote me an envelope
And wet the flap with teardrops.
The robins are lighting,
A birch-crag birdbath,
They're landing.
I wrote you a bookcase,
I slept all day and still felt bad.
Flitting up and down and underground,
Between the blades of grass at the Cottingley home.
A tiny door.
A party thrown.
Zipping in and out and all around
Between the blades of girls,
Dancing off of toadstools.
A pretty grace.
A wing of lace.
Froze upon the mount,
A snapping sound
Between the blades of light upon a camera sensor.
Now there's a face.
A secret phased.
I wrote you a bookcase,
You wrote back and burst me.