That old book lying in the corner/
Ignored, invisible, gathering dust/
Calls out, hurls out words and then hoarse whispers/
Pick me up, dust the dust away, please you must/
Turn the page over/
Look closer/
There is a story dying to be told/
Names, people, places, in there, growing listlessly old/
Dreaming the dream that someone would give them
their eyes/
That someone, late into the night, would softly narrate their lives/
That someone would set them free/
Free them from their hard bound captivity/
Even if just for a fleeting moment/
Starting from the lips to the heart it may be/
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