THE YEARS ARE BREAD [Verse 1 — intimate, reflective] Every winter leaves a little snow Upon the mountain of my head, Every mirror draws another road Across the country of my face. And every December I count what I made, What I gave, what I left unsaid, Like a blue line falling down a page, I watched my younger colors fade. [Pre-Chorus] Then I bought myself a box of colors, Put the old clock on the shelf— If time was gonna paint me gray, I'd paint the rest myself. [Chorus] So let the years rise in the bread, Let the silver crown my head, I've got a fire that burns more slowly But it burns a deeper red. I may not run the way I ran, I may not dream the way I did, But I've got something youth can't give— The years are in the bread. Oh, taste the years, Taste the tears, Taste every road I've ever bled— I am not getting empty, The years are in the bread. [Verse 2] I thought that I was turning into Some old movie, black and white, Still playing to an empty room While younger screens were burning bright. So I sharpened every pencil, Put new colors in my hand, Said, “Maybe I can't paint like twenty, But twenty couldn't paint who I am.” [Pre-Chorus] Every love became a flavor, Every loss became a grain, Every door that closed behind me Put a little yeast in pain. [Chorus] So let the years rise in the bread, Let the silver crown my head, I've got a fire that burns more slowly But it burns a deeper red. I may not run the way I ran, I may not dream the way I did, But I've got something youth can't give— The years are in the bread. Oh, taste the years, Taste the tears, Taste every road I've ever bled— I am not getting empty, The years are in the bread. [Bridge — music drops, almost spoken] I had the numbers upside down. I counted what was left... Instead of what I'd lived. Fifty winters aren't fifty thieves, They didn't only take from me— They left a thousand fingerprints On everything I see. And every scar became a sentence, Every failure learned to rhyme, Maybe wisdom is just youth That's been left to rise with time. [Musical lift] [Final Chorus — bigger, warmer] Let all the years rise in the bread, Let every wrinkle write its thread, There's an older kind of beauty Young eyes haven't tasted yet. Let tomorrow find me painting, Let me color what remains, I don't need my twenty-year-old hands To make something live again. Oh, taste the years, Taste the tears, Taste the love, the loss, the red— I thought that I was fading... I was rising instead. So when the final winter comes, And lays its white upon my head, Don't count the years that disappeared— Taste the bread. [Outro — quiet] Some things don't grow old... They rise.
