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She's waiting by the crossroads |
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Where the locust sing |
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Waiting for the black hand |
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To tune her violin string |
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Tune it down low |
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She waits for the hand of the shadows |
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To tune it down low |
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She sits down and lights up a candle |
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Lights a stick of her favourite incense |
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Pulls out a small piece of paper |
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Burns the edge (for effect) |
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Then begins writing |
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The case with her violin lay at her side |
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In dust like acoffin |
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A stranger who's died |
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She looks to the skyline |
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No one in sight |
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But that howl in the distance says |
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She's not alone here tonight |
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She's waiting by the crossroads |
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Where the locust sing |
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Waiting for the black hand |
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To kiss his ring |
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She heard that if she'd wait there on a moonless night |
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She could make a bagain 'neath the starlight |
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Time it down low |
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She waits for the hand of the shadows |
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To tune it down low |
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She slips her pan back to her pocket |
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Folds up her secret and thinks for a while |
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Holds the edge right to the candle |
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Watches it burn all the way to her fingers |
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Hour after hour she waited alone |
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Haunted by feelings of dread for the dawn |
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That howl in the distance has faded away |
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But the song of the locust continues to play |
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The candle is failing |
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The incense is gone |
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Thinking that maybe she's waited too long |
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Time moved so slowly, to pass it away |
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She took out her violin and started to play |
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Out of the quiet, stunned and amazed |
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By the elegant grace of each note that she phrased |
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It rose and it fell and it danced and it whirled |
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The strings 'neath her fingers about to unfurl |
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Her heart filled with laughter |
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Her eyes filled with tears |
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This mantra, symphony nobody, nobody |
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Will ever hear |
