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.