In the flatlands of the soul
Where the birds fly so low
Where at the heart of being
We fly solo
I took a train to Lille
In false economy class
I got more than I bargained for
In a sense regaining innocence
The sounds abound in a rhyming clash
Like all we thought lost, we never had
From a window, unseen, is the essence of life
Automatons busying themselves feeding the machine
Was it ever thus? For the soul to die screaming?
Tides of ideas trickle into action
We yearn for what we never had
And all too soon we are dust.