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Micha Bissinger and the Progressive Folk Orchestra
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The Boy With the Guitar
People walk by
Day is leaving.
And the skyline
like it's bleeding.
Noise of daytime
disappearing.
And another
tone to rehear.
Gentle sound
fills the streets.
Vague, where
the source accrues.
He's all alone,
not observed, rests in a
solitude of words.
In the dark light
of the street lamp
there's a boy, strum-
ing with cold hands.
Looking ahead
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in the blankness
his strings echo
through the pavement.
Gentle sound
fills the streets.
Vague, where
the source accrues.
He's all alone,
not observed, rests in a
solitude of words.
Does it matter
if you go home
when all you see has
been for too long?
Aching hunger
for the freedom
of that voice down
in the street.
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