I'm waiting for the rhythm,
A rhythm that explains essential meaning,
That words didn't deliver by themselves.

Sticking those letters in a synthetic voice program,
Their depth becomes shallow, empty,
The impact they have is diminished,
Without the sound of a voice, of a mind,
Of thought, of fault,
Staleness, precision, reality don't merit what we say.

That's why I'm waiting for a rhythm,
And whether it comes in dreams, or in scenes of dark blue highlighted streams,
On a couch overlooking the buildings that twist and alter the light,
From the sunset before the night,
Whether they come from footsteps,
Finding their way past a pleasant mall with reflections on the balls,
And frosted yoghurt at flower covered stalls.

And whether I tell these words in time,
Or if they fall out of line,
They'll ring and echo with the sound of a soul,
And it will make them whole,
So when I speak and you hear my voice,
You'll know what I mean when I say what I've seen,
And about the places I have been,
My natural sound upon natural ears,
I can feel the words already in future years...

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