I met you through a common friend
in the attic of my parents' house,
and though I didn't know it then,
I soon was finding out;
oh, you are the roots that sleep beneath my feet
and hold the earth in place.

Each time a faucet opens
words are spoken.
The water runs away
and I hear your name.
No, nothing has changed.

There was a book I read and loved;
the story of a ship
who sailed around the world and found
that nothing else exists
beyond his own two sails and wooden shell
and what is held within.

All else is sure to pass.
We clutch and grasp
and debate what's truly permanent.
But when the wind starts to shift,
well, there's no argument.
Now I sing and drink and sleep on floors
and try hard not to be annoyed
by all these people worrying about me.

So when I'm suffocating through some awful drive,
you occasionally cross my mind.
It's my hidden hope that you are still among them.
Well are you?

Oh, you are the roots that sleep beneath my feet
and hold the earth in place.
Each time a curtain opens,
sunlight pours in.
A lifetime melts away
and we share a name
on some picturesque grave.