(Verse 1) Resumes fold like paper birds, scattered hopes in crowded words. A desk, a ladder, or the sea, each one whispers: come with me too many roads dividing me. (Chorus) I’m scattered, gathering slow, pages turning where I go. Every offer pulls my hand, but I can’t work in every land. (Verse 2) The elevator climbs the floor, the workshop hums a softer score. My hands remember plans I made, blueprints fading, still untold— they tremble, waiting at the door. (Bridge) Oh, let the years be kind, not thin, not a race I have to win. I’ll plant my name in shifting ground, and trust a steady path is found.
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