He walks the yellow line of stone
In a hollow city all alone
With brass gears turning in his head
While the midnight subway sky is lead
His fingers trace the concrete seam
Like a slow and steady metal stream
He counts the rivets in the wall
Waiting for the heavy dark to fall
Wind the spring and set the dial
Walk the empty iron mile
Turning circles in the deep
While the tired city goes to sleep
He finds a sprout of clover green
The smallest leaf he's ever seen
Like a rare and wild botanical
In a tunnel cold and mechanical
Wind the spring and set the dial
Walk the empty iron mile
Turning circles in the deep
While the tired city goes to sleep
Oil the joint and tighten the screw
Everything he knows is old and new
Sifting through the grit and the grey
Looking for a golden kind of day
He measures out the distance slow
Where the hidden river currents flow
Matching seconds to a steady beat
On the frozen pavement of the street
A single seed in oil and rust
Growing from a layer of city dust
He gives it water from a copper tin
Watching where the living things begin
Wind the spring and set the dial
Walk the empty iron mile
Turning circles in the deep
While the tired city goes to sleep
Tick tock, tick tock.
The gears finally lock.
