Verse 1 I learned to travel light enough To carry all I owned A kettle black, a blanket thin A bell and weathered bone A packet full of flower seeds I planted where I stayed Though every garden I began Was someone else's shade Verse 2 I mended coats and broken hearts And sat beside the dying Held the hands of grieving wives And listened to their crying They thanked me when the fever broke They thanked me when it passed Until the winter brought them fear And stones replaced the thanks Chorus So I learned the shape of leaving Before I learned the shape of home Learned the sound of doors behind me And roads I walked alone Every town became a memory Every hearth a borrowed light I slept beside my packed-up basket And left before first light Verse 3 There was a bed in one small village Carved from cedar wood I stayed three weeks and never touched it Knowing I never should Because comfort asks a dangerous thing It asks that you remain And every place I'd loved before Had taught me not to stay Bridge The cold becomes familiar The hunger learns your name You stop expecting kindness So betrayal hurts the same And still I carried lanterns And still I lit the flame Because if no one remembered them Who else would speak their names? Final Chorus So I learned the shape of leaving Long before I learned of grace Long before a Candle Keeper Looked at me and saw my face Long before a warm hearth waited Long before I heard my name Spoken not with fear or judgment But as though I deserved to stay.
