Guitar and drums lock into that squared-off climb right away—ceremonial, heavy, not in a hurry.

Space sits around the riff, but it doesn't soften anything. Each return just feels larger.

Plant rides in over the march: sun on his face, stars for dreams—not breaking the stride, just traveling on it.

Traveler of time and space, headed where he's already been. The loop feels forward and fixed at once.

Elders of a gentle race, days they sit and wait—still that same patient engine underneath.

All will be revealed—and the band just keeps stepping.

Talk and song from tongues of lilting grace—sounds that caress, and still he can't relate a word.

The story was quite clear anyway. That's the odd double: legible motion, meaning that won't summarize.

Orchestral color is stacking up now—height over the road while the drums stay close to the floor.

Those long Ohhs just hang in the upper air. Less verse-to-chorus than one caravan under changing light.

Oh baby, I been flying—more speech than chant, leaning harder, almost arguing it.

Ain't no denying, mama. The riff doesn't answer; it just keeps the count severe.

Flying again, no denying again—local lifts without an exit.

All he sees turns to brown. Sun burns the ground while the riff grinds forward the same measured way.

Eyes fill with sand, scanning wasted land—heat in the lyric catching the music's steadiness.

Trying to find, trying to find where I've been. Easy groove to enter; no casual way out.

Pilot of the storm who leaves no trace—like thoughts inside a dream—and here's the path to that place.

Shangri-La under the summer moon. He will return again, sure as June dust.

When movin' through Kashmir—place named at last, still on the same bones.

Father of the four winds, fill my sails across the sea of years—open face, straits of fear.

Whoa-ohs stretching out. The arrangement answers with mass, not surprise. Desire starting to sound like fixation.

Still those long cries. The step is obvious, and somehow that knowledge itself is getting strange.

When I'm on my way—when I see the way you stay. March holding authority while the surface frays around it.

Ooh-ooh, yeah-yeah—when I'm down, so down—then let me take you there. Not persuasion anymore. Need.

Come on, come on—let me take you there. After eight minutes the grip is finally starting to drain.

Not a triumph. Just the march moving out of earshot—and the gap where the next step should be.