Our Children
How they play,
Finding treasure in the sand.
They're forever hand in hand,
Our children.
How they laugh,
She has never laughed like this.
Every waking moment, bliss.
Our children.
See them running down the beach.
Children run so fast...
Toward the future...
From the past.
How they dance,
Unembarrassed and alone.
Hearing music of their own, Our children.
One so fair,
And the other, lithe and dark.
Solemn joy and sudden spark,
Our children.
See them running down the beach.
Children run so fast
Toward the future
From the past.
There they stand,
Making footprints in the sand,
And forever, hand in hand,
Our children.
Two small lives,
Silhouetted by the blue,
One like me
And one like you.
Our children.
Our children.
Well.
You say that often. "Well".
It's because I don't know what to say, Baron.
I'm not a Baron, of course. I'm a poor immigrant, a Jew,
Who points a camera so that his child can dress as beautifully
As a princess. I want to drive from her memory every
Tenement stench and filthy immigrant street. I will buy her
Light and sun and clean wind of the ocean for the rest of her
Life. Now you know me. Now you understand. I am no Baron.
I am Tateh.
Now I know even less what to say.
Now it's my turn: Well.
Thank you for your confidence. I shall keep it here.
Finding treasure in the sand.
They're forever hand in hand,
Our children.
How they laugh,
She has never laughed like this.
Every waking moment, bliss.
Our children.
See them running down the beach.
Children run so fast...
Toward the future...
From the past.
How they dance,
Unembarrassed and alone.
Hearing music of their own, Our children.
One so fair,
And the other, lithe and dark.
Solemn joy and sudden spark,
Our children.
See them running down the beach.
Children run so fast
Toward the future
From the past.
There they stand,
Making footprints in the sand,
And forever, hand in hand,
Our children.
Two small lives,
Silhouetted by the blue,
One like me
And one like you.
Our children.
Our children.
Well.
You say that often. "Well".
It's because I don't know what to say, Baron.
I'm not a Baron, of course. I'm a poor immigrant, a Jew,
Who points a camera so that his child can dress as beautifully
As a princess. I want to drive from her memory every
Tenement stench and filthy immigrant street. I will buy her
Light and sun and clean wind of the ocean for the rest of her
Life. Now you know me. Now you understand. I am no Baron.
I am Tateh.
Now I know even less what to say.
Now it's my turn: Well.
Thank you for your confidence. I shall keep it here.
Credits
Writer(s): Lynn Ahrens, Stephen Charles Flaherty
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
Link
© 2025 All rights reserved. Rockol.com S.r.l. Website image policy
Rockol
- Rockol only uses images and photos made available for promotional purposes (“for press use”) by record companies, artist managements and p.r. agencies.
- Said images are used to exert a right to report and a finality of the criticism, in a degraded mode compliant to copyright laws, and exclusively inclosed in our own informative content.
- Only non-exclusive images addressed to newspaper use and, in general, copyright-free are accepted.
- Live photos are published when licensed by photographers whose copyright is quoted.
- Rockol is available to pay the right holder a fair fee should a published image’s author be unknown at the time of publishing.
Feedback
Please immediately report the presence of images possibly not compliant with the above cases so as to quickly verify an improper use: where confirmed, we would immediately proceed to their removal.