I'd been sitting in a shop window, 
waiting ages for a buyer.
I was simply out of fashion then.
I was a simple wooden lyre.

My strings were plucked a hundred times,
and were fastly growing worn.
My music of a bygone age,
my varnish looked forlorn.

I had given up hope of being used,
the way I was created.
Who would want to play something,
That looked so worn and dated?

Then a ray of sun, entered the shop,
Where I was on display,
And asked if she could pick me up
and have a gentle play.

My strings trembled under her gentle touch,
the tune was sad and weary.
She looked as an angel from above
but her face was lost and teary.

She took me home and threw my strings,
and rubbed my grain all down.
Then lovingly gently varnished me,
but still she wore this frown.

The strings replaced, she tuned me up.
At last she cracked a smile.
She gently placed me in her lap
and held me for a while.

When at last, she finally played
and plucked a gentle chord.
A song was born, of broken hearts,
of love being ignored.

Through my sound, she sang, she cried.
She exorcised her tears.
She got the man out of her life
and sang away her fears.

For the next few months she smiled and sang,
gently strumming me each day.
Sometimes her voice made me overcome,
but still we'd play and play.

I came to love the voice of hers
and the plucking of my strings.
She turned me from a lump of wood
and made me grow some wings.

My music and her song would soar,
Two melodies entwined.
Her words were grace personified,
and were lovingly defined.

Then as her heart was mended,
and her life went on at last.
The times when she would pick me up
were fewer than the past.

My strings once again grew weak,
but she really didn't see.
I was bought out on occasion,
but it really wasn't me.

She needed something different,
to make her music come.
The rare times that she did hold me,
I got no more than a hum.

And so now I'm perched here sitting
alone here on the floor.
I wish she'd take me back again
to the shop I'd been before.

For I have to make the music,
or wood's only good for the fire.
I may not make her heart sing now,
but I am still a wooden lyre.