Most books, like their authors, are born to die; of only a few books can it be said that death hath no dominion over them; they live, and their influence lives forever.
J. Swartz
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A Whisper
A whisper, whisper, whisper, whisper
A whisper, whisper, whisper, whisper
I hear the sound of the ticking of clocks
Who remembers your face
Who remembers you when you are gone
I hear the sound of the ticking of clocks
Come back and look for me
Look for me when I am lost
And just a whisper, a whisper, a whisper, a whisper
Just a whisper, a whisper, a whisper, a whisper
Night turns to day
And I still have these questions
Bridges will break
Should I go forwards or backwards
Night turns to day
And I still get no answers
Just a whisper, a whisper, a whisper
A whisper, a whisper, a whisper
(Just a whisper, whisper, whisper, whisper)
I hear the sound of the ticking of clocks
Who remembers your face
Who remembers you when you are gone
I hear the sound of the ticking of clocks
Come back and look for me
Look for me when I am lost
And I am just a whisper, a whisper, a whisper, a whisper
Just a whisper, a whisper, a whisper, a whisper
Oh ha ah ah ah ah ah ah