A path of dirt that begins on the edges of nothing
and my everything that still persists in looking for a way.
The thoughts that burn my eyes more than sand.
These eyes once again give thanks for being here.
And the night here is night, it is truly the mother of darkness.
And black is only one colour of reality.
This way a man knows sixteen ways of saying green
and another one has but only one to say goodbye.
Rubbish is not only the one that one sees.
To be white doesn't exactly mean to be innocent.
And men waste their time because they don't have it
and women bear all weights better than I do.
And everyone is always walking, but where to then?
In the meantime, a tree is like an umbrella if it rains.
A journey gives a story to each of us.
I'm convinced I'll save myself
in the same way every return has its own glory,
it's another circle that will shut itself.
A path of dirt that begins on the edges of nothing
and my everything that still persists in looking for a way,
looking for a way.
Looking for a way.