There’s no line that needs be written
There’s no line that should be drawn
There is nothing and there is just
A blank-paged book, covered in dust.
There’s no line, no there’s no circle
There’s no shape if you don’t call it
There’s just something, that you can see
Dust, in your own imagery…
Dust, in your own imagery…
There’s no line, no there’s no circle
There’s no shape if you don’t call it
There’s just something, that you can see
Dust, in your own imagery…
There’s no truth that can’t be whispered,
There’s no lie that can’t be sung,
Every hymn we thought was certain
Falls apart on someone’s tongue.
There’s no line, no there’s no circle
There’s no shape if you don’t call it
There’s just something, that you can see
Dust, in your own imagery…
But if you listen to the silence,
And the way it folds the dawn—
You might find that all the borders
Aren’t as real as we were taught.
There’s no line, no there’s no circle
There’s no shape if you don’t call it
There’s just something, that you can see
Dust, in your own imagery…
There’s no line that needs be written
There’s no line that should be drawn
There is nothing and there is just
A blank-paged book, covered in dust.
There’s no line, no there’s no circle
There’s no shape if you don’t call it
There’s just something, that you can see
Dust, in your own imagery…
There’s no truth that can’t be whispered,
There’s no lie that can’t be sung,
Every hymn we thought was certain
Falls apart on someone’s tongue.
But if you listen to the silence,
And the way it folds the dawn—
You might find that all the borders
Aren’t as real as we were taught.