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"A daughter born the day they walked the moon |
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Somewhere on the edge of the Age of Aquarius |
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In the year her mother |
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Would have otherwise forgotten |
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July was very hot in North Carolina |
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So she left for Buffalo on a bus in the rain |
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With the steam off the asphalt still wet in her hair |
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And the pain of her soldier gone |
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Just sailed away |
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Before he was a soldier, he was just his mother's boy |
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And that's exaclty how she planned to keep him |
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His father died so long ago and he was all she had |
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Still she shared his love with a very young wife |
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And before the war things weren't so bad |
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But every generation makes the same mistakes |
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And still they send their sons away to do the same |
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The mothers cry and the daughters die inside |
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And the sons like the fathers |
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March |
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Whose hair was longer?I think his, she might say |
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But in the army they cut it all away |
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Too much room for wild thoughts to grow |
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And in the spring of his child's first year |
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The father, hey the son, the husband |
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Under beautiful sky, youth like fire in his eyes |
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He gave his life for nothin' |
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No, nothin' at all, they said |
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So many years and the pain it still remains |
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And now her daughter's man will sail away |
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Politics and promises forever the same |
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We take away and sacrifice what we cannot replace |
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And every generation makes the same mistakes |
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And still they send their sons away to do the same |
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And the mothers cry and the daughters die inside |
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And the sons like the fathers |
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Now the sons and the daughters |
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March |
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Buffalo in the winter, bitter as it is |
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Is home for three generations of widowed brides" |
