Track Insight / Lyrics
You lean back on a cold stone floor,
Beside the heavy archive door.
Your fingers smell of lemon oil,
While deep below the garden soil.
Tuning the gold to a perfect line,
Holding the breath of a dying pine.
Low in the basement where old books sleep,
Promises made that the hammers keep.
The Monstere Deliciosa grows,
Where the damp cellar current flows.
You check the pins with a steady hand,
The quietest clock in all the land.
The leather bindings start to peel,
You feel the tension of the steel.
A slight adjustment to the key,
To set the frozen music free.
Tuning the gold to a perfect line,
Holding the breath of a dying pine.
Low in the basement where old books sleep,
Promises made that the hammers keep.
The Calathea folds its green leaf,
The tuning lever brings a brief relief.
A sudden sharp jump then a steady fall,
Writing a song on the concrete wall.
You close your eyes in the heavy grey,
Watching the hours just drift away.
The ivory keys are a bleached white row,
Waiting for winds of the song to blow.
Tuning the gold to a perfect line,
Holding the breath of a dying pine.
Low in the basement where old books sleep,
Promises made that the hammers keep.
Just one more turn of the heavy screw.
The pitch is gold and the air is new.
