I am my mother's savage daughter, the one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones. I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair. I will not lower my voice. My mother's child is a savage. She looks for her almonds in the colors of stones, in the faces of cats, in the fall of feathers, in the dancing of fire, in the cover of old bones. I am my mother's savage daughter, the one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones. I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair. I will not lower my voice. My mother's child dances in darkness and sings hidden songs by the light of the moon, and watches the stars and reneaves the planet, and dreams she can reach them. I am my mother's savage daughter, the one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones. I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair. I will not lower my voice. My mother's child curses too loud and too often. My mother's child laughs too hard and too long, and howls at the moon and sleeps in ditches and clumsily raises her voice in this song. I am my mother's savage daughter, the one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones. I am my mother's savage daughter, I will not cut my hair. I will not lower my voice. Now we are brought forth out of darkness and water, brought into this world through blood and through pain, and deep in our bones the old songs are waking, so sing them with voices of thunder and rain. We are our mothers savage daughters, the ones who run barefoot cursing sharp stones. We are our mothers savage daughters, we will not cut our hair. We will not lower our voice. We are our mothers savage daughters, the ones who run barefoot cursing sharp stones. We are our mothers savage daughters, we will not cut our hair. We will not lower our mothers savage daughters, the ones who run barefoot cursing sharp stones. We are our mothers savage daughters, we will not cut our hair. We will not lower our voice.