[Verse 1]
Violet kaleidoscope closed and eyelids open again
To see leaves pushed by the wind
It's cold, my breath in the air
Up the stairs to upstairs where we live
I can see past our bricks to other brick buildings
I'd like to grab my marker and draw
Look to my pa
He smiles through his beard
I tug at it
He hands me a green one
Puts a piece of paper up
A painting of his hanging above what I'm drawing
It's so colorful
I'm standing in his shadow
I scribble
My mom laughs
I must have done something great
Time for a break
I lower my head
Fall asleep with them in my periphery
[Verse 2]
He wakes up with the KGB knocking at his door
For the pieces he painted and exhibited the week before
He's hiding artwork under his floor again
Rumors about that circulated back to this particular officer
He's here to put an end to it
Lock my father away with the rest of his friends in the movement
Life on the line just to prove that the people still have a right
Would I have that kind of courage later down the line when I'm alive?
Hard not be a conspiracy theorist after all your friends have died
Under a subway train or in an apartment fire
Because of things that you believed in and decided to write
Put a brush to the canvas and aspire to fly
Handcuffs on, eyes closed
How could he survive this life?
How could he survive this life?
[Verse 3]
I open my eyes
Been some time since he left
And even though he brought our family to the US
Where I'm free to express myself
But still a slave to debt
Repeatedly making art for someone else's financial benefit
Cataloguing his works while listening to my catalogue of words
Reflecting, wondering whether my passion is dwarfed
Am I still in his shadow or have I eclipsed it?
Is the light inside bright enough?
Is it worth fixing?
And who really makes their own decisions?
Am I an artist because I wanted to be?
Or did he give me that ambition?
Doubly supported by my mom and sister
I was tossed into the system but bred by the resistance
That's an interesting mix then
Putting a price of my passion so I can enjoy living
But it's catching up
Staring at a screen, I've had enough
I'm going through shed after shed of his paintings stacked up
I see the signs
What would he have done?
Trying to add it up