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Halfway through the heavy dark.
Miles away from the city park.
Dust settling on the burning steel.
I know exactly how this machine must feel.
This is the engine's confession.
A beautiful, quiet obsession.
Burning the oil, turning the stone.
Out in the wild, completely alone.
Listen to it breathe.
The wind from the canyon wiping the glass.
Watching the shadows of the mountains pass.
Eight empty cylinders singing a song.
Telling me this is where we belong.
This is the engine's confession.
A beautiful, quiet obsession.
Burning the oil, turning the stone.
Out in the wild, completely alone.
Listen to it breathe.
No flashing screens, no digital lies.
Just the raw earth under the starry skies.
The metal is hot, but the night is cold.
A modern machine getting ancient and old.
(Raw, passionate Oud solo echoing through the canyon)
(Frame drum hitting harder, more primitive)
(Throat singing drone vibrating underneath, pure organic power)
We cross the line where the rivers bend.
The middle of the map, far from the end.
Keep the fire steady, hold the line straight.
We carry the time, we carry the weight.
This is the engine's confession.
A beautiful, quiet obsession.
Burning the oil, turning the stone.
Out in the wild, completely alone.
Listen to it breathe.
