Track Insight / Lyrics
He tends Quercus robur beside the corroded payphone,
soil slick with evening dew, roots crown the dark stone,
the handset's brass sulfur gleams, a quiet resting box,
once a year it rings, a bright bell over the narrow block.
[Pre-
The hand drum keeps time, a steady pulse in the breeze,
he whispers "Patria Natura" to the trembling leaves,
the call in the silence feels like a fresh sprout,
awaits the dial to crack, the sound will rise again.
When the ring echoes, the sap runs, the saplings sway,
the baritone sax slides through the damp night air,
soil smells of old news, the city's quiet breath,
he smiles at the rusted machine, the year's call is near.
Moss covers the crumbling stone, a pale green blanket,
he studies the phonograph, like a seed in frost,
he takes a seed of hope, pockets in his coat,
hedge wires hum, time is measured by each new ring.
[Final-
And again the call knocks, crisp as a fresh leaf,
the sax shrugs, the drums keep rhythm with the earth,
the phone's voice is a relic, yet it tastes like spring,
he watches the dial turn, patient, its story ends.
