Rusty Heart.

All the cynics are out while the trees sing with doves,
And all the wreckage shouts of all the forgotten love...

... And as the clock hits noon,
I know it's you,
That makes me feel this way,
So pure - so new,
So it's today,
That I choose to ice this bruise,
And I'll take this day,
To reflect and softly say -
That somethin's gonna change,
And it's not outta range.

She's waitin' for the ball to hit the floor,
Or to up and sail the coast,
With the boy she loves the most,
Who's been in a bad space,
Brought back up by the light in her face,
So for all the trouble he caused,
And the love that he's lost,
He'll redeem and rediscover,
With this wonderful new lover.

And all the cynics are out while the trees hang above,
And I just want to shout that I can (finally) feel a taste of love...

...And that night - her voice is so soft,
Just her words alone bring his heart aloft,
So light, and so unfamiliar,
So fresh and so much fitter,
For this rusty heart,
So stalwart and so smart,
But new to this foreign energy,
Inexperienced as he could ever be.

But the numb has gone,
And perhaps he can move on,
And take his place beside her,
As the bard with eyes wider,
Than the orchards growing cider,
No longer narrow,
Like his sweeping fingers' marrow,
It's this beacon shining down south,
That opened wide his mouth,

So he could sing...
This little thing...

'Bout his baby from Barrie.