I am my mother's savage daughter,
the one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones.
I am my mother's savage daughter.
I will not cut my hair.
I will not lower my voice.
My mother's child is a savage.
She looks for her romance in the colors of stones,
in the faces of cats,
in the falling of feathers,
in the dancing of fire,
in the curve of old bones.
I am my mother's savage daughter,
the one who runs barefoot,
cursing sharp stones.
I am my mother's savage daughter.
I will not cut my hair.
I will not lower my voice
My mother's child dances in the darkness
She sings heathen songs by the light of the moon
And watches the stars and renames the planets
And dreams she can reach them with a song and a broom
room
We are all brought forth out of darkness
Into this world,
through blood and through pain
And deep in our bones,
the old songs are waking
So sing them with voices of thunder and rain
We are our mother's savage daughters
The one who runs vivid, cursing sharp stones
We will not cut our hair,
we will not lower our voice.