Itís not really dangerous here,
that everyone has left.
They had no place to go,
but they left anyway,
eager to escape the recurring seasons
that haunt us each year again and again.
Clouds of flies
in just one part of the woods.
So we canít pass through.
On the other side the tiny streams are crowded with fish
pushing their way upstream, relentless, gazing,
at least they know where to go.
Every journey begins with uncertain hopes,
when you give up on the destination you know
youíre at last on you way.
is a tunnel from the mountain to the city.
Itís on the map but no one can go through.
It runs for hundreds of miles.
No one will let you in.
No one will let you out.
Itís the only way to get there from here. 
|1||Ten years ago the machines failed us as no one was in charge.|
|2||The looming subsumes us from war to peace.|
|3||You remember the story (itís not yet over)|
|4||The voice of the wind,|
|5||Thereís an old swing set rusting in the woods.|
|6||Someone blew up the mountain|
|7||The old order is turned asunder|
|8||A bomb left a hole gaping at the street corner|
|9||The philosopher has returned to his homeland|
|10||You enter the room and the day is still sunny|
|12||What changes is the will to change|
|13||One song after another, not to impress,|
|14||If youíre driving long enough|
|15||This age of ours always hangs on|