I hang the painting, I hang it high
The bottom end brushes my thigh
Fingers brushes my skin
Fingers that are long, that are thin
I hang the painting, I hang it high
Hands through fabric brushes my thigh

A small kitchen, an odd kitchen stool
A beautiful friend, a love's fool
A sun in the room, a sun on the table
A book of memories telling a fable
A large raven with a heart of gold
A cruel swallow already sold

Cinnamon lingers still in the air
He calls me beautiful, he calls me fair
I am his princess, I am his love
Tattoo with flowers, my name and a dove
I carry him with me, in our home, on the street
While he grows, I grow heavy on my feet