[Intro]
[Slow floor toms accompany a lone guitar lament built from the album’s three-note motif.]

[Verse 1]
I stood where muddy boots had worn a hollow in the floor,
With iron at my ankles and two bailiffs at the door.
They asked why bread had failed to rise when I had passed the lane;
I said the baker thinned his flour; half the town could say the same.
They asked why lambs were stillborn in the pasture by the wall;
I said the shepherd grazed them late and barely fed at all.
They asked why fever took a child three houses from my bed;
I named the well beneath the tannery. The magistrate turned red.

[Chorus]
I am the widow at the bar; I own no hidden mark.
My cellar holds potatoes, not a covenant made dark.
I am the widow at the bar; my hands are rough with grain.
You cannot cure a frightened town by giving me its pain.
I am the widow at the bar—look plainly while you can:
You judge the field behind my house, not any deed or plan.

[Verse 2]
The baker owed me twelve small coins from harvest two years past,
The shepherd moved my boundary stone and prayed I had not asked.
The assessor drew my orchard on a map before the trial,
Then hid the freshened ink beneath a folder for a while.
The witchfinder demanded why I met his gaze so long;
I said an honest answer does not make a woman wrong.
He smiled and told the courtroom that defiance was a sign;
The clerk lowered his troubled eyes and straightened every line.

[Pre-Chorus]
If I speak, you call it pride.
If I weep, the fiend must hide.
If I kneel, I mask the lie.
If I stand, my pride testifies.

[Chorus]
I am the widow at the bar; I own no hidden mark.
My cellar holds potatoes, not a covenant made dark.
I am the widow at the bar; my hands are rough with grain.
You cannot cure a frightened town by giving me its pain.
I am the widow at the bar—your questions twist and turn;
You ask me to confess the lie that gives you leave to burn.

[Guitar Solo]
[A slow, vocal-like lead rises over sustained chords and breaks on an unresolved note.]

[Bridge]
Young clerk, I saw your fingers shake
When men called profit Heaven’s sake.
The page may hold what they require,
But paper feeds the waiting pyre.
One day the red cord round your book
Will tighten each time you refuse to look.
Remember me when bells are fed;
Remember whose first name ran red.

[Break]
The judge asked once: “Will you confess?”
I answered only, “No.”
He called refusal stubbornness
And ordered me below.

[Final Chorus]
I was the widow at the bar; I bore no hidden mark.
My cellar held potatoes and my candle fought the dark.
I was the widow at the bar; my field produced their gain.
They could not cure a frightened town, so they assigned its pain.
I was the widow at the bar—the verdict had been planned;
My guilt was written after they had measured out my land.

[Outro]
[The female voice remains unaccompanied for the final lines.]
Do not say the fire proved them right.
A flame proves only
What men ignite.