Hel lo, dark ness, my old friend.

I’ve come to talk with you a gain.

Be cause a vi sion, soft ly creep ing,

left its seeds while I was sleep (A)ing.

And the (D)vi sion

(E)that was (D)plant ed in my brain

still re (F#m)mains

with in the (Esus)sound

of (F#m)si lence.

In rest less dreams I walked a (E)lone,

nar row streets of cob ble (F#m)stone.

’Neath the ha lo (A)of a street lamp,

I turned my col lar to the (D)cold and damp

when my (D)eyes were stabbed by the flash of a ne on light

that split the (F#m)night

and touched the (E)sound

of (F#m)si lence.

And in the na ked light, I (Esus)saw

ten (Esus)thou sand (E)peo ple, may be (F#m)more.

Peo ple talk ing (A)with out speak ing,

peo ple hear ing (A)with out lis t’ning, peo ple writ ing songs

that voic es nev er shared;

and no one dared

dis turb the (Esus)sound

of (F#m)si lence.

“Fools,” said I, “you do not (A)know:

si lence, like a (F#m7)can cer, (Bm)grows.

Hear my (D)words, that (D)I might teach you.

(D)Take my arms, that (D)I might reach you.”

But my (G)words,

like si lent rain drops, fell

and ech oed in the (A)wells

of (Bm)si lence.

And the peo ple bowed and (A)prayed

to the ne on god (Bm)they made.

And the (Bm7)sign flashed (D)out its warn ing,

and the words that it was form ing.

And the sign said: The (G)words of the proph ets are (G)writ ten on the sub way walls

and (A)ten e ment halls,

and whis pered in the (A)sound

of si lence.