Squares and angles sketch a town,
shining under desert sun,
A waving roadway lines the ground,
fades to nothing as it runs.

Moving in a metal box,
set on cushioned wheels that roll.
Intruments, like little clocks,
report the state of auto-soul.

Who can say where we go ?
Why the haste, when we don't know ?
Is this real we have our eyes on ?
Or some vanishing horizon ?

Look inside. What is there ?
Is there a place the true Self lives,
in this house of fluid air,
that sometimes takes, and sometimes gives ?

Like the Wiseman said, it's true,
although we may travel far,
anywhere we wander to...
'wherever we go...there we are'.

On our back, the Nomad's pack.
There within, the bony rack.
Coursing through the network halls,
something longs to flee the walls.
Something listening hears a Call.
(Copyright 1997-"Future Folk" Music-Betty Curtis)

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