Cold concrete floor and the grey metal vent
Scent of old paper and chemical spent
I hold the bow with a grip tight and lean
Smallest of ghosts in a digital machine
Basement level where the heavy air clings
Tuning the wood and the silver-wound strings
Walking the line where the ink meets the page
Locked in a loop like a bird in a cage
Play me a song from the deep underground
Turning the static to gold in the sound
Hold on to notes that the archives forgot
Tying the memory into a knot
Walking the aisles of the card-catalog
Lost in a haze like a thick winter fog
Searching for names that were written in gold
Stories of people whose lives were untold
Play me a song from the deep underground
Turning the static to gold in the sound
Hold on to notes that the archives forgot
Tying the memory into a knot
Lower the light to a dim amber glow
Feel how the rhythm begins to flow slow
Breath in the dark where the cold metal rings
Wait for the moment the melody swings
Copper and resin and rosin and grit
Lighting a candle and watching it lit
Sinking the sound through the vents to the street
Matching the pulse of a four-on-the-floor beat
Close all the doors and the heavy steel locks
Counting the seconds on ticking wall clocks
Swaying in circles on tiles of pale blue
Singing a hymn that is honest and true
Play me a song from the deep underground
Turning the static to gold in the sound
Hold on to notes that the archives forgot
Tying the memory into a knot
Archive strings in the deep
While the city's asleep
Archive strings.
