Lyrics

[Verse 1]

There’s a bridge above the river, stretching high from shore to shore,

And we cross it like a fallen tree—we’ve crossed it all before.

There are buildings full of shadows where we settle out of sight,

And a tunnel makes our voices sound like giants in the night.

There are caves with perfect corners, roofs that keep the rainfall out,

Where the little ones discover how to echo every shout.

We don’t wonder who first shaped them, we don’t wonder who knew how—

If they’re dry enough to sleep in, that’s enough to know for now.

[Pre-Chorus]

Not a tree and not a hillside, yet they’re standing just the same;

We have found a use for every shape we’ve never had to name.

[Chorus]

These are things that never grew,

But the moss comes creeping through.

No warm breath and no heartbeat,

Just another place to rest our feet.

Let the old ones whisper low

Of the little things from long ago.

There’s a world we never knew

In the shade of things that never grew.

[Verse 2]

Rows of fences ring the clearings, casting stripes across the ground,

Just another kind of thicket with a way to walk around.

Wooden crates become a lookout where the smallest stand up tall,

And the barrels ring like thunder when a tail-tip makes them fall.

Far above the distant treetops stands a dome against the blue,

Like a second, stranger skyline always somewhere in our view.

From the shore and from the ridgeline, we can see its great ribs gleam—

Then we lower thirsty muzzles to the water of the stream.

[Pre-Chorus]

It is bigger than the mountains that we knew when we were small—

But there’s grass beneath its shadow, so we barely care at all.

[Chorus]

These are things that never grew,

But the moss comes creeping through.

No warm breath and no heartbeat,

Just another place to rest our feet.

Let the old ones whisper low

Of the little things from long ago.

There’s a world we never knew

In the shade of things that never grew.

[Bridge]

But the elders speak at sundown of the creatures small and bare,

Who could make a mountain hollow, who could hang a road in air.

Little bodies, restless fingers, voices thin against the breeze—

They could leave a thousand straight lines in a world of crooked trees.

Now their footsteps live in stories, now the rain has washed their trail,

And the oldest voices falter as they finish up the tale.

Then a youngster at their shoulder gives a yawn and settles deep—

There’s a dry floor in the building,

And it’s good enough for sleep.

[Final Chorus]

These are things that never grew,

But the roots come winding through.

No warm breath and no heartbeat,

Just another place to rest our feet.

Let the old ones whisper low

Of the little things from long ago.

Their stories fade like morning dew—

But we sleep in things that never grew.

[Outro]

High above the sleeping island,

Those great ribs catch the blue.

And the wind keeps moving softly

Through the things that never grew.