[Verse 1] The forest hangs by a fraying wire, a violin string above the fire. Ghosts in the leaves sing silver notes, while iron mouths learn how to choke. [Pre-Chorus] The map grows fat where the green grows thin, a gold-toothed river lets the engines in. [Chorus] Swing, little bell of the broken trees, counting the years in a dying breeze. Your hands hold air where the branches stood, praying to stumps in a crown of wood. Swing, while the sky still remembers your name, the smoke writes over it all the same. One more song from the edge of the noon, one last rope to the disappearing moon. [Verse 2] Men in neckties harvest horizons, selling the shadow, fencing the silence. Every receipt is a fallen nest, every machine wears a hunter's vest. The mountains cough up black perfume, the markets bloom while the orchids doom. A kingdom measured in quarterly rain, trading a chorus for a spreadsheet gain. [Chorus] Swing, little bell of the broken trees, counting the years in a dying breeze. Your hands hold air where the branches stood, praying to stumps in a crown of wood. Swing, while the sky still remembers your name, the smoke writes over it all the same. One more song from the edge of the noon, one last rope to the disappearing moon. [Bridge] When the forest becomes a museum wall, children will ask why the singers fall. We'll point to a photograph framed in dust, say, "They vanished slowly," as if slow meant just. [Final Chorus] Swing, little bell of the broken trees, echo of something we used to be. The axe never hated the branch it found, it only obeyed the hunger of towns. Swing, little mirror above the flood, showing the price of mistaking greed for good. One last note where the wild things swoon, one last rope to the disappearing moon. [Outro] And the silence inherits the tune.
