|
You're a cousin to the mountains,
|
|
and a sister to each pine,
|
|
you tremble like an ever-flowing glass of wine.
|
|
You like sand instead of carpets
|
|
with a thousand watts of sun,
|
|
and quick wingbeats in place of clocks
|
|
to tell your time.
|
|
You're at home on any hilltop,
|
|
but you cry on Ferris wheels,
|
|
and you lose yourself in other people's lives.
|
|
Oh. my Tennessee Madonna
|
|
country daughter of the plain,
|
|
your days revolve in crystal worlds
|
|
of falling rain.
|
|
My altar is your slanting knees
|
|
where I whisper my nightly thoughts,
|
|
yet I never fear the flame
|
|
that burns inside.
|
|
There are children lost inside of you
|
|
just waiting to be born
|
|
as a happy compromise
|
|
of you and me.
|
|
You're at home on any hilltop
|
|
but you cry on Ferris wheels,
|
|
and you lose yourself
|
|
in other people's lives.
|
|
Oh, my Tennessee Madonna
|
|
country daughter of the plain,
|
|
your days revolve in crystal worlds
|
|
of falling rain.
|
|
|
|
-----------------
|
TENNESSEE MADONNA
|
| Dion Dimucci |
