| the city is a trap | |
| in which we fling our worries | |
| and grasp for somebodys promise | |
| of the good life | |
| forever changing plans | |
| restrained by envious spirits | |
| and wanting to want to give in | |
| and go for the country | |
| my love will always be | |
| of vibrant and dense traffic music | |
| that fills me up when nothing is expected | |
| the push | |
| and the shock | |
| the handshake that could be changing your direction | |
| the mess | |
| and the chaos | |
| the sounds of someone close to falling apart | |
| don't wake me from the dream | |
| don't shake me from the notion | |
| that the day will come | |
| and I'll belong and not be lost | |
| so far away from hell | |
| from unpaid debts and world war | |
| where my bare feet are walking on dew | |
| without treading a needle | |
| on a needle | |
| the push | |
| and the fall | |
| the handshake to the change of your direction | |
| the mess | |
| and the chaos | |
| the sounds of someone close to falling apart |