The rebel makes amends with the businessmen.
The roadbuilder says he wonít build any more roads
unless they can be the right kind, those that hurt no one
and get everyone just where they want to go.
Every one persuades every other to follow one course or
facts get softer, values get harder;
the truth will never be the same.
Iím looking for a percentage, I want a number,
to hold my fate in a queue.
I want to be one of the numbers,
but I find I never fit in
to the rules, the criteria, the quanta that list us
in one type or another, one choice,
one way to make sense of the world.
So, what do you believe, they all want to know,
as I am charged with reporting the events,
and what happened on the journey,
and what to expect,
and when, and why (?)
I resist doing what needs to be done
to answer these persistent queries.
Some may have given up,
others do hide,
behind images of beauty or despair.
You will wonder at the rest
brought by the rainfall,
and how the expectation is still greater
than the final sight of the sun.
The millionaire calls:
he hasnít much time
but he too has been racing the world
seeking an end for his money
and a beginning for peace,
to wish his path has crossed less evil than good.
I have come to cash in my trajectory.
How much will this map of my troubles be worth?
How many routes can be climbed still on Earth? 
|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|