The wail of Galen on the floor, begging universal laws to soften -- for a moment let the valleys in the carpet line their slopes with heavy light so he can rake a smooth foundation, flat as earth in ancient maps, an even, stable base to build on, all the lumps and burrs and pits abolished: give support to blocks of wood too slight to bear each other's weight. They will not stack, his tower cannot be. [Chorus] He has seen the power lines: a web of lace, the threads of time the dream-film shapes of unfleshed thought, a spiral hope, the smoke signal we call imagination. The story of men and tools and space and time and matter, the mater, the mother who cannot forgive her violent son, this gravity always reaching for his absent mother's arms, accidentally knocking all the stars down off the mantle, crashing blindly on the door so recently slammed in his crestfallen face. Galen, in his role of spokesman makes again the human plea in the coded language, sorrow: certain tears which do not heal and can't be damned by tissue walls. [Chorus] He has seen the power lines: a web of lace, the threads of time the dream-film shapes of unfleshed thought, a spiral hope, the smoke signal we call imagination. The wail of Galen on the floor, begging universal laws to soften -- The story of men and tools and space and time and matter, the mater, the mother who cannot forgive her violent son, this gravity always reaching for his absent mother's arms, accidentally knocking all the stars down off the mantle. [Chorus] He has seen the power lines: a web of lace, the threads of time the dream-film shapes of unfleshed thought, a spiral hope, the smoke signal we call imagination.
