There are no roots to see, not with our eyes

They stretch from earth, umbilically below

Not even to see the sun to realize

But there must be acord we do not know.

Are we not on a fruit ripening

Perhaps we are the nectar from a tree

Awaiting harvest time great symphoney

When all is ripe its out time to be

We wil be plucked from the path we're on

Around the sun into a vat and pressed

The journey of falling down

Reavealing vast unkowns we've never guessed

Then all our stuff of nonsence, all we thought

Fragments into the past we already bought.