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Needlework

from Grand Measures by lesserman

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about

This song is about the legacy of my Grandmother. I have not known a more faithful person. Even through the hardships of her life and the unnecessary amount of pain she endured before her death, she remained forgiving to those who wounded her and faithful to her God who did not intervene on her behalf.
-Joshua Topliffe

lyrics

Riding the rails at nine years of age. All you've ever known vanishes into snow-covered plains including your Siberian home numbered instead of named, the countless sufferings of dictatorial regime. Cattle cars don't afford basic amenities. No room to spare carrying so many dreams. As the train brakes you see a boy there not much younger than yourself scurry behind the barest frigid shrub squatting to relieve himself. Then the car starts to move. His father jumps out scoops him up half clothed without protection for his dignity. The train would pay no mind, the cold show no mercy. You carried these memories and more to a foreign land you couldn’t speak the language of nor afford but for the generosity of other snow covered plains. 70 years on you are wiser for the pain. You’ve learned to work it and the land in your favour. Your family means more to you than anything. You remind us at every gathering what we enjoy, why you came here, expressing tearful thanks while holding our hands around the table. Clicking needles. Sewing stitches. Weaving webs of comfort. Watching your garden grow. On your knees, by your bed, every night, every morning on behalf of friends and neighbours, your precious family. A notebook of scratches open before you filled with requests over years all marked with praise despite unasked-for answers. Clicking needles. Sewing stitches. Weaving webs of comfort. Watching your garden grow. Arthritis robs you of religious postures, the ability to kneel then hold your needles. A sudden decline, a loss of sight then most of your hearing. A move away from memories into the scent of death. You attempt your rest on a bed of knives the negligent make. Nothing serves relief only the company of family. Clicking needles. Sewing stitches. Weaving webs of comfort. Watching your garden grow. As wounds tunnel through your body for two years now you writhe in a state of living hell. You batten down the senses, weather what you must to enter port on crystal seas. You moan those words a prayer and a song repeating into unknown epochal dawn, "No more pain, no more suffering. What am I to do, I worship you…”

credits

from Grand Measures, released April 17, 2014

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lesserman Edmonton, Alberta

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