ShyEyes
Novice Sprinter
Six silver threads across the wood,
a hollow box of aged pine,
that speaks the things you never could
and turns the silence into line
A single touch upon the fret,
a gentle pull along the wire,
and all the thoughts you can't forget
become a low and steady fire.
It doesn't care if notes are wrong,
or if the chords are rough and slow
it only takes the hidden song
you carried where no others go.
So bend the string and let it cry,
and let the wooden body ring;
sometimes the heart can only try
to say in wood what it can't sing.
a hollow box of aged pine,
that speaks the things you never could
and turns the silence into line
A single touch upon the fret,
a gentle pull along the wire,
and all the thoughts you can't forget
become a low and steady fire.
It doesn't care if notes are wrong,
or if the chords are rough and slow
it only takes the hidden song
you carried where no others go.
So bend the string and let it cry,
and let the wooden body ring;
sometimes the heart can only try
to say in wood what it can't sing.
