No one knows how it's done. It's been that way since we were young.
Circled the field, plowed the heart. Could never find: it's overrun.
We're versatile, our minds are made. It's been said all that remains
goes out the window when you're looking out,
at salted earth and dirty ground.
But the man said, "I'll tear it down."
On the top of thorns, on the top below.
From the valley floors, these minds begin to grow.
In due time, we might find our way.
Things begin to move in the end of days.
And I overheard the fancy man. Silly clothes and dollars signs.
He said, "I'll do all I can." But from the door, you don't see him again.
The pylon is burning bright; eradicating all the night.
On the top of thorns, on the top below.
From the valley floors, these minds begin to grow.
In duest time, we might find our way.
Things begin to move in the end of days.
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