My mother is not the white dove.
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(Oh hey ohh oh. Oh huh ay ay) My mother,
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my mother. She is the flight of the white dove,
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and when I do not feel her feeling me,
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when I do not feel her feeling me,
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that is when I am lost. (Ohh.)
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My mother, ahh,
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she is the blackness against which the stars are placed,
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against which the stars are placed, ah,
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and when I do not feel her feeling me,
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when I do not feel her feeling me,
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I, uh, that's when I am, uh,
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trailing lost. (Oh, oh.)
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My mother, she,
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she is the long cry that is pulled from our hearts
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as we lift our faces from the lap of loneliness,
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uh, the lap of loneliness.
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(Ah hah hah hah hah. Oh, oh, hey now, hey now.)
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My mother, she is not the white dove.
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She is the flight of the,
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she is the flight of the,
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she is the flight.
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My Mother Is Not The White Dove
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| Jane Siberry |
