| . |
| Am | G | |
| H | ello darkness my old fri | end, |
| Am | |
| I've come to talk with you ag | ain. |
| C | F | C | |
| Because a vi | sion softl | y creep | ing |
| F | C | |
| Left it's seed while I w | as sleep | ing, |
| F | C | |
| And the vis | ion that was planted in my br | ain |
| Am | |
| Still rem | ains |
| C | G | Am | |
| Wit | hin the s | ounds of si | lence. |
| Am | G | |
| I | n restless dreams I walked a | lone, |
| Am | |
| Narrow streets of cobble | stone. |
| C | F | C | |
| 'Neath the | halo of a | street | lamp, |
| F | C | |
| I turned my collar to the | cold and | damp, |
| F | C | |
| When my | eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon | light |
| Am | |
| That split the | night |
| C | G | Am | |
| And | touched the s | ounds of si | lence. |
| Am | G | |
| And | in the naked light I | saw |
| Am | |
| Ten thousand people, maybe | more. |
| C | F | C | |
| People | talking with | out speak | ing, |
| F | C | |
| People hearing with | out listen | ing, |
| F | C | |
| People writing | songs that voices never | shared, |
| Am | |
| And no one | dared |
| C | G | Am | |
| Dis | turb the s | ounds of si | lence. |
| Am | G | |
| "Fools!" said I, "you do not | know, |
| Am | |
| Silence like a cancer | grows. |
| C | F | C | |
| Hear my | words that I | might teach | you, |
| F | C | |
| Take my arms that I | might reach | you." |
| F | C | Am | |
| But my | words like silent raindrops | fell... |
| C | G | Am | |
| And | echoed in the | wells of si | lence. |
| Am | G | |
| And the people bowed and | prayed |
| Am | |
| To the neon gods they | made. |
| C | F | C | |
| And the | sign flashed out | its warn | ing, |
| F | C | |
| In the words that it | was form | ing, |
| F | C | |
| And the sign said, "The | words of the prophets are written on the subway | walls |
| Am | |
| And tenement | halls." |
| C | G | Am | |
| And | whispered in the s | ounds of si | lence. |