Friday, September 30, 2011

from by Sara Bouchard

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lyrics

My mother works at the rain garden from nine to five each day
(She figures it’s a sure bet - there’s no shortage of rain.)
While I go to school and tinker with tin cans and twine.
One day I’ll be an engineer at the wind turbine.

The water is rising and the wind is never still.
And so we reap the wind and so we reap the rain
And so we reap the methane produced in our floating landfill.
Our responsibilities we pursue with pride,
Sailing portable temples across the raging tide.

Her still small voice is clearly heard with an archaic sound,
Drifting upward, rising more and less, its rhythm deftly found.
Mother, tell me a good story of grass-covered meadows
And of my haunted father who I will never know.

She waves a hand toward the photograph and her lips quiver at the name.
I recognize my eyes in his - the shape of the curve was the same.
He helped build the new infrastructure, but he was a wild-eyed dreamer.
Word got out he was a wanderlust, and he was forced to disappear.

At night the phosphorescence is kicked up by the wake.
And the rhythm of the ocean mirrors the pattern of our tracks.
I wonder, are these dreams some kind of premonition?
As we venture into the future amidst the changing seasons.

The water is rising and the wind is never still.
And so we reap the wind and so we reap the rain
And so we reap the methane produced in our floating landfill.
And I am still haunted by the ones we left behind.
We're sailing portable temples across the raging tide.

credits

from The News: Monday​-​Friday, released March 2, 2012

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Sara Bouchard Brooklyn, New York

I am a multi-disciplinary artist and songwriter with a strong foothold in American roots. My work explores the intersection between sound, story and environment. I perform solo and with my band Salt Parade.

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