The wheel turns, the wheel turns, the wheel turns;
in the void, there's only the cycle, the noise of eternity, whispering secrets
in half-forgotten echoes,
the past, the present, all tangled in the now.
in the void, there's only the cycle, the noise of eternity, whispering secrets
in half-forgotten echoes,
the past, the present, all tangled in the now.
The clock ticks silently,
machinery clatters,
a fog of memories unknits
and reknits itself with fervor,
disjointed yet whole.
Why do I walk this path,
forge this loop,
repeat this cycle ad infinitum?
One finds the path
Not in searching, But
In the looping, the weaving back,
Ground covered anew—old.
Does the river think of its source,
Or is it too lost in
The rush of the journey,
the spin of the roundabout?
Time, the relentless sculptor;
reshaping, reshaping, until the sculpture is dust,
then reborn, along the same relentless curve.
reshaping, reshaping, until the sculpture is dust,
then reborn, along the same relentless curve.