| And this is like the lucid dreams
|
| Made up by fools and regimes
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| We know nothing is what it seems
|
| When they knock on our doors
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| Wake us up from our dreams
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| They’ll appear on the apogee
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| Knowing the present, presently knowing
|
| You say «what else is there to know»
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| The grey is hanging low
|
| And I am waiting
|
| I am waiting for the undertow
|
| Try to run slow, trying slowly to run
|
| I’m still searching for a soft drop
|
| Searching for a soft drop
|
| Try to run slow, try slowly to run
|
| I’m still searching for a soft drop
|
| Searching for a soft drop
|
| I need the seasons
|
| Well I need to see them change
|
| I could change colors like the grouse
|
| You know what this is about
|
| Yet you refuse to hear me shout
|
| Knowing the present, presently knowing
|
| You say «what else is there to know»
|
| The grey is hanging low
|
| And I am waiting
|
| I am waiting for the undertow
|
| Try to run slow, trying slowly to run
|
| I’m still searching for a soft drop
|
| Searching for a soft drop
|
| Try to run slow, try slowly to run
|
| I’m still searching for a soft drop
|
| Searching for a soft drop
|
| Ok then, so are we just waiting?
|
| For the day they knock on our doors
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| Wake us up from our dreams
|
| You know nothing is what it seams
|
| I’m still searching for a soft drop
|
| Searching for a soft drop |