Morning Hollow

In the silver morning hollowTrembling and getting oldSmelling burnt oil of heavenAbout ten years, too big to holdShe don't get up when I come into the roomShe don't run through the fields anymoreBuilt a fire in the kitchenMade her bed by a stoveTook a walk to the graveyardBut she didn't want to goShe don't worry all them murders of crowsEven though they was always out of reachShe don't get up when I come into the roomShe don't run through the fields anymore