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Seventy-four. Seventy-five.
He's getting used to it now,
how each one falls away in that hoary light.
and they are gone, gone from the age,
gone from the guards and their hands.
It's no different today than in years gone by.
And he won't come out alive,
with his hands so thin and white…
Gone. Gone from the page,
and then he is gone from your eyes,
as that splintering wave takes so many lives.
And now your hands are gripping the edge
of such a waste, where every angel looks dead,
every face a lie.
And you won't come out tonight,
with your hands so thin and white, alive…
Seventy-four, seventy-five,
Daddy, come back to me now–
I would beat them away
I would lift you out
I would wash all the cinders from your eyes
And with silver and gold
I would adorn you
I'll let it all come out tonight,
when they pull me out alive.
Alive
He's getting used to it now,
how each one falls away in that hoary light.
and they are gone, gone from the age,
gone from the guards and their hands.
It's no different today than in years gone by.
And he won't come out alive,
with his hands so thin and white…
Gone. Gone from the page,
and then he is gone from your eyes,
as that splintering wave takes so many lives.
And now your hands are gripping the edge
of such a waste, where every angel looks dead,
every face a lie.
And you won't come out tonight,
with your hands so thin and white, alive…
Seventy-four, seventy-five,
Daddy, come back to me now–
I would beat them away
I would lift you out
I would wash all the cinders from your eyes
And with silver and gold
I would adorn you
I'll let it all come out tonight,
when they pull me out alive.
Alive
Lyrics submitted by wrat
Track duration: 03:24
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Seventy-four, seventy-five
he's getting used to it now
how each one falls away in that hoary light
And they have gone, gone from the edge
gone from the guards and their hands
Was no different today than in years gone by
But he won't come out to light
with his hands so thin and white
Gone from the edge, then he is gone from your eyes
as that splintering wave takes so many lives
Even the hands are gripping the edge of such a waste
Every angel looks dead, every face a lie
But you won't come out tonight
with your hands so thin and white, alive
Seventy-four, seventy-five
Daddy, come back to me now
I would beat them away
I would pull you out
I have washed every cinder from your eyes
and with silver and gold I would adorn you
I'll let it all come out tonight
when they pull me out alive, alive
"Seventy-four. Seventy-five. He's getting used to it now, how each one falls away in that hoary light.", could be an observer of the burnt witches counting all of the deaths they've seen.
"such a waste, where every angel looks dead, every face a lie.", could be the narrator's lack in faith, since everyone is lying and accusing everyone else.
i might totally, completely, absolutely be wrong. it's just a guess!