| Walk through the hills
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| The ones so golden, the ones beholdin'
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| The fondest memories of yesteryear
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| And I will follow you
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| You know I won’t fear, I’m growing up my dear
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| And starting to hear my own direction
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| Finally, there’s something I can hold onto that isn’t broken
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| It’s in my hand, the smallest grain of sand
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| Becomes a Hidden Treasure
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| So write me a letter
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| One I’ll save forever inside these broken drawers
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| The ones that I find that make me smile
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| And don’t file me away
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| With things forgotten, things old and rotten
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| 'Cause I was the one you could really talk to
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| Here in the now
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| Finally, there’s something I can hold onto that isn’t broken
|
| It’s in my hand, the smallest grain of sand
|
| Becomes a Hidden Treasure
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| Why are we severe
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| To the one’s we hold dear and closest to our hearts?
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| Always biting the hands that feed us
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| When here in the now
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| Finally, there’s something you can hold onto that isn’t broken
|
| In your hand, the smallest grain of sand
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| Becomes a Hidden Treasure |