Guitars

We are born unto our own
 Sapling seeds from old growth
 Raised up tall and cut down low
 So we are, and so we go
 Turned from home, handled, and hauled
 Shaped and sanded, bent and sawed
 Many hands and many years gone
 Write every one our songs
 Play we all
 True songs
 We sing them right
 We sing them wrong
 Tuned up tightly
 And passed along
 Like old guitars
 We breathe
 Songs
 Long to be held in arms
 And loved and played by heart
 Days of light and days of dark
 All resolve the broken parts
 Hands of old, hands of young
 Hands of gentle, hands of rough
 Every one with a song to teach
 Some sing pain, some sing peace
 Play we all
 True songs
 We sing them right
 We sing them wrong
 Tuned up tightly
 And passed along
 Like old guitars
 We breathe
 Songs
 Upon our faces many lines show
 Traces of time like pen strokes
 Words and changes and passing notes
 And scars where the skin broke
 Play we all
 True songs
 We sing them right
 We sing them wrong
 Tuned up tightly
 And passed along
 Like old guitar
 We breathe
 Songs
 We breathe songs