Guitar riff, rolling drums, and strings lock a steady forward motor before any lyric arrives. The form’s contract is the pocket itself: hypnotic, martial, already complete as motion.

Plant enters over the continuing riff—let the sun beat down upon my face—and the stanza frame settles. A cresting instrumental reload answers the first eight lines, then a second verse (talk and song from tongues of lilting grace) proves the same architecture still holds. Brief wordless cries close the block without leaving the groove.

Story stanzas drop away. The voice rides long, repeated cries—I been flying, ain’t no denying—while guitar figures and strings widen over the unbroken pulse. Repetition does the work: lift without a new narrative station.

A tighter lyric sequence arrives: brown ground, burning sun, sand, wasted land, the search for where I’ve been. The motor does not change jobs; the words focus the journey into a single scorched image until the passage thins toward the next return.

Verse form returns cleanly—pilot of the storm, yellow desert stream, Shangri-La—and lands the title line, when movin’ through Kashmir. A further stanza (father of the four winds) keeps the traveler’s address open, then wordless whoa-oh cries spill the stanza edges without breaking the march.

No new verse architecture. Extended ad-libs—when I’m on my way, let me take you there—reload the same groove until motor and attention loosen after 8:22 and the track fades rather than cadences.

The whole form is one sustained march that cycles verse, crest, and cry without ever surrendering its pulse for a conventional bridge resolution.