"Maybe I could wash clean
Yeah maybe I could wash clean ."
~Switchfoot
~Metal Fields~
Metal fields producing steel flowers.
Cold and beautiful, or hot and bright.
Metal fields plowed by flesh.
Clawing and working by the means of a soul.
The metal grows and covers.
The fields produce fruit stronger than any before.
The workers tortured and flowers grow.
They think they have nothing left in their souls.
They have nothing left to leave.
Nothing left to give.
Nothing left to hurt.
Nothing left to love.
They have no more than the metal man.
Neither hot or cold, but lukewarm in their hearts.
Metal fields ran by the metal man.
Cold and beautiful, or hot and bright.
Metal fields fueled by smoldering heat.
Burning and searing by the means of the hot and cold.
Why not break free?
The metal heart stabbed by a thorn.
Then turning back into flesh.
This is the way.
Who will rise up?
There are metal fields across the land.
With steel flowers grown by idle and trembling hands.
The workers struggle while the metal man sleeps in his metal bed.
Who will rise up?
Who will take the thorn?
Who will change the world one day at a time.
Metal fields producing steel flowers.
Cold and beautiful, or hot and bright.
Metal fields plowed by flesh.
Clawing and working by the means of a soul.
What is left of that soul?
What is left to give?
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