Lyrics
That old lady, with her scarred hands
She lived in a paper house with its walls covered in scratches
Every morning, she smiled at the window and waved her eyes
Every morning she wrote on the walls of the house
It was so strange how the walls of scratched paper resisted,
To all the stones thrown by children who passed by
Not even the scratches on the walls were tarnished
And she smiled and waved her eyes
That old lady, dressed in gray and shabby robes
She stood still, leaning on an ebony and ivory walking stick
Every afternoon, she breathed deeply on the paper porch
Every afternoon she wrote on the walls of the house
So curious was that old woman, by the eyes of the world rolling.
All that people coming and going , so glazed in their own universes
That they no longer perceive the old lady standing there, as the children did
And she breathed deeply on the paper porch
That old lady, with her face wrinkled and eyes full of tears
She lays on a bed of hay in the light of an old rusty lantern
Every night, she cried alone, until the lantern went out
Every night she wrote on the walls of the house
And no one has ever seen the old lady at night, not even light in that house
A story without beginning and without end, told in those walls of paper
A cyclical existence, almost vicious, of all who crossed the old lady
And she cried alone, until the lantern went out
