| It starts with distant thunder born under skies | |
| dressed in ochre | |
| Pressure rising up and over the anticipating land | |
| Under layers of white noise | |
| and through the static, sounds a voice | |
| I want to hear the song it sings again | |
| I remained outside, with every nerve alive | |
| Lightning struck without remorse | |
| and gave a cue to move indoors | |
| The TV died, as did the lights | |
| In the dark the radio came to life | |
| Under layers of white noise | |
| and through the static, sounds a voice | |
| I want to hear the song it sings again | |
| The secret station of my choice... | |
| Forgotten music in the noise | |
| inviting me to dance a minor dance | |
| Faded and ethereal music that is dying to be heard | |
| Desperate to mesmerise and capture our hearts | |
| Wander in beauty, and wonder where I've been... | |
| Faded and ethereal music that is dying to be heard | |
| Desperate to mesmerise and capture our hearts (again) | |
| Aided by a thunderstorm | |
| I came upon this station from old days | |
| I intended to seek it out again when I need shelter from the rain | |
| I wander in beauty, and wander where I've been |
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