There's a certain melancholy as I look out the window
the train swaying slowly, billowing smoke as it goes
my thoughts, clouded as they are, reforming me
I close my eyes and imagine the fields passing by.

I try to bring up the happiest memory I have
it's somewhere in there, formless and drifting
yet all I can remember is the path that I have traveled
all I can remember is the path that I have to travel.

I've been on this road for far too long
drifting from one destination to another
searching for an oasis in this endless desert
I am a traveler grown weary of the same old mirage.

The cabin rattles and pulls me out of my stupor
I go back to staring at those endless farms
this momentary respite from the journey
has slowly become the fondest memory of mine.

Smiling, I laugh at my own childishness
of wishful thinking, of dreaming about my goals
my destination is not at the end of these tracks
rather, it's these fields that I am passing through.