[Intro — clean vocal, sparse piano] We called it spring when the ground turned green, as if the earth had just begun, counted blossoms on the branches, leaning warm toward the sun. [Verse 1] Then somewhere without warning, the evenings learned to stay, bare feet running through the clover, while the daylight slipped away. We swore that summer lasted forever, that August couldn’t end, but green was turning gold already before we noticed when. [Pre-Chorus — harmonies begin] We gave the changes names so we’d know where we had been, drew a line between the seasons where one ends and one begins. [Chorus — jazz harmony opens] But there was never any line, only leaves becoming flame, only sunlight changing angles, while we gave the moments names. Round and round, we called it time, watched the colors rearrange. Maybe nothing ever leaves us— maybe everything just changes. [Verse 2 — guitar begins answering vocal] October gathered at our feet, red and amber in the street, every tree let go so easily of what it couldn’t keep. Then winter took the branches, left their bones against the sky, and we called the whole world sleeping just because we couldn’t see inside. [Pre-Chorus — rhythm becomes less predictable] Underneath the frozen garden, something waited without sound. While we mourned what we had lost, spring was breathing underground. [Chorus — heavier guitar] There was never any line, only green becoming gray, only rivers under ice still finding somewhere else to stray. Round and round, we called it time, counted years and called them gone. But the earth beneath December was already moving on. [Bridge — jazz-metal/dubstep fracture] Who decided March meant starting? Who decided snow meant end? Who told September she was leaving when she’d come this way again? We put numbers on the circles. We put names upon the sky. Built a clock to watch it turning and convinced ourselves it flies. [Instrumental Break — distorted guitar and vocal harmonies spiral around shifting jazz chords; drums fracture the pulse; deep dubstep bass enters gradually] [Breakdown — nearly everything drops out] The tree doesn’t know it’s autumn. The seed doesn’t know it’s spring. The river never counts the winters. It simply keeps becoming. [Final Chorus — full instrumentation] There was never any line, never somewhere we could stand and say, “Here the old world ended. Here the new one just began.” Round and round, we called it time, while the seasons intertwined. Maybe time was our illusion— and change was all we’d ever find. [Outro — clean vocal, instrumentation dissolving] Snow becomes the river. River feeds the bloom. Flowers become autumn. Autumn feeds the roots. And somewhere under winter the beginning waits unseen. Maybe time was never moving. Maybe we were moving through it.
