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Strumming my pain with his fingers, singing my life with his words |
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Killing me softly with his song, killing me softly with his song |
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Telling my whole life with his words, killing me softly with his song |
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I heard he sang a good song, I heard he had a style |
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And so I came to see him to listen for a while |
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And there he was this young boy, a stranger to my eyes |
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I felt all flushed with fever, embarrassed by the crowd |
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I felt he found my letters and read each one out loud |
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I prayed that he would finish but he just kept right on |
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He sang as if he knew me in all my dark despair |
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And then he looked right through me as if I wasn't there |
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But he just came to singing, singing clear and strong |