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Is to wither and die Beyond the pale There are only dressed-up cadavers They are wound up each day Like alarm clocks They perform like seals They die like box office Like box office receipts They perform like seals They die, they die They perform like seals They die, they die Each day, each day Each day, each day But in the seething honey-comb There is a growth as of plants An animal warmth almost suffocating A vitality which accrues From rubbing and glueing together A hope which is physical As well as spiritual A contamination which is dangerous but salutary Small souls perhaps Burning like tapers But burning steadily And capable of throwing portentous shadows On the walls which hem them in All goes round and round All goes round and round Creaking, wobbling, lumbering Whimpering some-tunes But round and round and round But round and round and round Then, if you become very still Standing on a stoop, for instance And carefully think no thoughts And carefully think no thoughts A myopic, bestial clarity besets your vision There is a wheel There are spokes And there is a hub And in the center of the hub there is exactly Nothing --- 3 8 1 16 20 5 18. 14 9 14 5 20 5 5 14 - Yann Tiersen