Distant solar systems and all the minor planets

Know nothing of our satellites and 747s

Fireworks that recreate the birth of constellations

Dying suns that laugh at shotgun powder imitations

When I am a sailor, and the sky, a pitch-black ocean

I'll look down at my bleeding heart and wish I were a Vulcan

It's Byzantine structures, churches in Rome

All of our treasure of oil and gold

All of the empires crumble in stone

Great architecture gilded in chrome

God and I, we correspond with intermittent letters

I send postcards from the road, and now and then He answers

Echoes northern city-states, and all the mighty kingdoms

Head of sewing needles on an unending horizon

I knew the words you sing before you

Ever thought to sing them

You call yourself a bastard

And I love you like an orphan

'Cause great men of science and literature

Don't impress me, what can I offer?

Because I am a chisel in Your hand

Screaming at marble from a microphone stand