The Faces of Roswell Outdoor Art Tour

Lyrics

[Intro]
Alright, everyone, if you'll gather in close. Welcome.
Watch your step on these old bricks.
The sun is just right this time of day.

[Verse 1]
We start here, with him. The Founder, we assume.
No name on the little brass plaque, just a date: 1839.
Go ahead, you can touch him. See?
The sun's been on his bronze forehead all morning, he's warm.
Like he's thinking.
He watches the traffic on Atlanta Street, this permanent, silent resident.
A committee decided, sometime in the late 1990s, I think.
They decided this was a face worth remembering.
Even if they forgot to give us his name.

[Chorus]
These are the faces of Roswell.
Cast in hollow metal, bolted to the concrete.
They see the Saturday Farmers Market, the joggers with their strollers.
They feel the seasons change in the shade of the live oaks.
A permanent, quiet tour of a story we tell ourselves.

[Verse 2]
And over here, by the bench, is the Mill Mother.
That's not her official title, that's just what we call her.
Her hands are folded, patient.
Her eyes are looking toward Vickery Creek, or where the creek would be.
Last spring, someone left a bouquet of azaleas in her lap.
At dusk, I saw a dog's metal tags jingle against her ankle.
A little flash of sound in the quiet.
A little piece of now, brushing up against then.

[Bridge]
Now, follow me across the street. This is my favorite.
Another founder, a politician, a man of commerce.
Look at his posture, the confidence.
And look where he's pointing.
Not at Bulloch Hall, not toward the Square.
His outstretched hand, his determined bronze finger...
Points directly at a storm drain.
Maybe he's pointing to the water system, the source of everything.
Or maybe the artist just had a quiet little joke for us.
A secret only the observant find.

[Chorus]
These are the faces of Roswell.
Cast in hollow metal, bolted to the concrete.
They see the tourists taking selfies, the teenagers on their phones.
They feel the seasons change in the shade of the live oaks.
A permanent, quiet tour of a story we tell ourselves.

[Outro]
We don't know who sculpted them.
The records are gone, if they ever existed.
So we make up our own.
He's pointing to the future. She's waiting for her children.
He's just happy for the good weather.
Keep your eyes open.
The tour is everywhere.