We've all got a job
Yet we always feel robbed
Satisfaction never stays until the end of days
One man can have the will of thousands
Only two hands to push the weight of the world
Needs no compass, creating an atlas
Life in their own hands, what divides them from a fascist?
Proverbial attacks for being an architect
How can one ant carry an apple?
How can one man conquer their criteria?
All dreams end, yet the meaning persists
Waking up, getting out
But for who? You? Them? Me?
The truth is often what we never want it to be
How can one cure division when the conversation is slipping?
Running out of solutions
So they answer with silence
...