Some songs are not just music — they are revelations.
Summer Son by Texas is one of those rare songs where the Goddess Herself seems to speak, not as a distant myth but as a force that sears and awakens.
At first listen, it might sound like a breakup song — full of ache, fire, and bittersweet liberation.
But if we listen with the heart of a bhakta, we hear something else: Devi Herself stepping out of the soft image we made of Her, burning it away, and standing before us in Her uncontainable reality.
This is not the gentle Goddess of incense and prayer beads, the one who only consoles and never disrupts.
This is the Devi who arrives like summer sun — blazing, merciless in Her love — and then like winter rain, washing away the last traces of illusion so that we can see Her clearly.
The whole song is Her arc:
the burning of the false dream,
the mocking of our sentimental illusions,
the searing light that forces us to face the truth,
and finally, the cleansing rain that lets us behold Her as She really is — awake, fierce, tender, and unbearably real.
Verse 1
I'm tired of telling the story
Tired of telling it your way
Yeh I know what I saw
I know that I found the floor
This is Devi when She has had enough.
Enough of our endless explaining, our excuses, our mental courtroom.
We can almost feel Her shaking Her head — not in anger, but in that fierce love that refuses to let us stay stuck.
When She says, “I’m tired of telling the story,” it is as if She is done letting us rewrite the past to protect our egos.
When She says, “Tired of telling it your way,” we feel Her stepping in and taking the pen out of our hands.
No more soft edits, no more making ourselves the victim or the hero.
“I know what I saw” — here She is the Witness, the All-Seeing.
Her gaze leaves no corner unlit.
And “I know that I found the floor” — this is Her gift to us:
She takes us to rock bottom, not to punish, but to give us a place to stand again.
We can only bow to this —
to the Mother who drags us through fire until we touch the ground of truth,
who is tired not out of spite, but because She loves us too much to let the lie go on.
Pre-Chorus
Before you take my heart, reconsider
Before you take my heart, reconsider
I've opened the door
I've opened the door
Here Devi does not rush toward us — She pauses, She warns.
“Before you take My heart…” — not because She is unwilling, but because Her heart is not something casual.
To touch Her heart is to step into the fire where everything false will be burned.
We hear this and tremble.
This is no ordinary love affair — this is the love that will strip us bare.
Her words “reconsider” are not a rejection — they are a final moment to breathe before we leap into the unknown.
And then: “I’ve opened the door.”
This is the moment that changes everything.
When Devi opens the door, nothing will stay hidden.
The door She speaks of is not just the heart’s door — it is the doorway into the shrine, into the śmaśāna, into the place where our small self will dissolve.
We feel both terror and gratitude here.
She has given permission, She has made the threshold visible —
but She also reminds us: once we cross, there is no going back.
Chorus
Here comes the summer's son
He burns my skin
I ache again
I'm over you
This is the moment when Devi steps out of the image we had made for Her.
The soft, safe, domesticated Goddess we clung to — the one who only soothed but never disrupted — cannot survive this heat.
“Here comes the summer’s son” — this is Her true radiance breaking through, fierce and dazzling.
The warmth we expected is now a fire that scorches.
“He burns my skin” — it feels almost cruel at first.
The skin here is the outer layer of devotion — all our sentimentalism, our projections, our fears and cravings that made us want Her only as a gentle mother.
She burns that away, and yes, it aches.
“I ache again” — this pain is holy.
It is the ache of being stripped of illusion.
It is the ache of finally seeing Her as She is, not as we wished Her to be.
“I’m over you” — this is Her saying:
“I am not the Goddess you thought I was.
I am beyond your image of Me.
If you want Me, you must come to where I truly stand — in the open, blazing, real.”
This chorus is Her act of iconoclasm — She shatters the idol we built in our mind so that we can meet the living Goddess.
Verse 2
I thought I had a dream to hold
Maybe that has gone
Your hands reach out and touch me still
But this feels so wrong
Here Devi turns our own words back to us.
“I thought I had a dream to hold…” — She repeats it with a wry smile.
As if to say: Yes, you thought you could hold Me like a dream, like a keepsake.
But look — that dream is gone now, burned to ash.
“Maybe that has gone” — She says it softly, but there is a glint in Her eyes.
The dream is gone because She took it, because She burned it away.
It was too small, too fragile, too made of our own fears and cravings.
“Your hands reach out and touch me still” — this is where it cuts deepest.
She reminds us: I am still here. I never left.
Even after I shattered your dream, I am closer than ever.
“But this feels so wrong” — and here She almost teases us.
What feels “wrong” is only that we are not used to meeting Her without the soft filter of illusion.
It is raw now, almost too real, too intimate.
This is not the dream-Goddess, this is the living Devi — fierce, sovereign, uncontainable.
This verse is Her holy mischief — burning our dream, then holding our face up to the truth and saying: Look. See what you thought I was. See what I am.
Final Chorus
**Here comes the summer's son
He burns my skin
I ache again
I'm over youHere comes the winter's rain
To cleanse my skin
I wake again
I'm over you**
The summer sun has already burned the soft image we carried — and now the rain falls.
Not to make us “better,” not to soothe us into another dream, but to wash our eyes clear.
“To cleanse my skin” — this is the rinsing of perception.
What we used to cling to — the mental picture of a tame, sweet, always-comforting Goddess — has been burned away, and now even our senses are scrubbed clean so that we can bear to see Her.
“I wake again” — this is not our rebirth but our awakening to Her.
We see Her standing before us, awake, visceral, unedited — not a polished image, not a safe projection of our imagination.
She is no longer an icon we can hold in our hands — She is the storm itself, the rain, the blazing heat, the one who fills the sky.
“I’m over you” — now heard as Devi’s final declaration:
“I am over the little mask you put on Me.
If you would meet Me, meet Me here — under this rain, under this sun, under no illusion.”
This is the culmination of the whole song: the bhakta’s eyes are opened, and for the first time, they see Devi not as an idea but as She truly is — living, sovereign, unbearably real.
By the time the song fades, nothing is left of the old dream.
The soft, manageable Goddess we once clung to has been burned away, and in Her place stands something terrifyingly beautiful — the living Devi.
Her fire stripped off the sentimental skin of devotion.
Her rain washed the ash from our eyes.
And now we see Her not as an idea, not as a comforting story, but as She is — awake, fierce, tender, sovereign.
This is why Summer Son feels so charged: it is not just about heartbreak, but about revelation.
It is the moment when Devi says, “I am over the image you made of Me — meet Me here, in the blazing sun and cleansing rain.”
And as we stand in that space, we know that nothing will ever be the same again.
We cannot go back to the dream — because now, we have seen Her.
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