Old paper has a kind of voice
It whispers when it turns
This page has yellowed at the edge
Like toast, like autumn leaves
It smells of attics, tea and time
And someone's rolled-up sleeves
A pencil note in margins
From hands I'll never know
Paper thin and paper strong
It carried words this far
Somebody wrote them long ago
For readers yet unborn
I love the weight, the ink, the thread
The spine's familiar crack
A book is such a patient boat
For bringing stories back
Written for a generation
That was not yet here
Paper thin and paper strong
It carried words this far
Somebody wrote them long ago
For readers yet unborn
The psalmist asked for this one thing
That what he wrote would keep
So people yet to be created
Would praise, and read, and weep
Mmm... mmm... mmm
Paper thin and paper strong
It carried words this far
Somebody wrote them long ago
For readers yet unborn
Paper thin and paper strong
It carried words this far
Somebody wrote them long ago
For readers yet unborn
Old paper has a kind of voice
And it was talking to me
