You hide yourself away in shame
Under the relentless quicksand,
It grabs your soul as you vanish to a better world
That lies somewhere between here and there
And you come to think: "Is this the sort of thing
One of my ancestors had to go through
In order to prove himself to others
After he left without saying a word?"
All these questions remain while you've been stuck in here for days,
The underground isn't your home, how come you sank so low?
"If everyone's here, then why do I still feel alone?", you say.
"It makes no sense, and to be fair, I don't think it ever did.
A feeling that comes and goes like high tides and fierce hurricanes...
It's just me who's complaining about something no one needs an explanation for".
If there is no gold buried under the sun
That offers heat in the ground above,
Then what else should be done?
Dig any further and you may find
Not a reward, but your own grave
Waiting for your own body.