Child, you have branches in your hair   Been moaning, quiet   His small voice   Been living a steady low   Hand or knife      Child, remove the dirt from your cheeks   Turning clinging vines into brick walls   I hear mumbling   But I'm deaf and dumb   So I bite my tongue   And swallow its sickness   Though you're definitely the best   And I wouldn't mind      Come hold my hand   It's enough, it's enough   Your reflection is me   Stick around, stick around      (Come, come, come, and it's all closer)