Look here, look here
Hear hear, hear hear
We got a man on the moon
A man on the moon if you believe
Some then, then some, they're gonna be back soon
They're gonna take us there if you believe

Look here, look here
Can you hear the sound of words?
Is there a song in your head?
We got the lyrics, can you make it heard then?

There's a man back from the dumps of life,
A man as lost as us, but chases questions better,
A man as stripped as us, but dresses in skin better,
A man as bad as us, but defines good everyday better,
A man as lonely as us, but labels it as solitude and enjoys it better,
A man as poor as us, but turns experiences into wealth a little better,
A man as void of words as us, but paints a better world in heads better.
A man spun in gosammers of life, but makes jewellery out of dew a little better,
A man that refused to grow up, but calls it that he's just lost a little better.

That kid had a story to tell, 
Said "mama, I think that world's a little opaque."
I said "maybe it is, but what do you mean?"
Said "mama, but I see through it."
What do you see?
Said "mama, I see people losing every day."
Why would you see such a thing?
I can't help what I see, but what I see is what I tell.

Okay, would you like to tell me more?
Depends, my words make little sense, are you up for a little chore?
Of course my kid, for you, I can do so much more
Said, "Mama, in that case, we're up for a little tour."

There was this world we called home
Beyond this world is where lived, a person called mundane
Driven by those around her and those she called her own
Mundane likes to do things again and again

While doing so, she ignored the racing of her heart
She dared not to stop anticipating the seconds of her life
Her walls are made of premonitions with doubts like work of art
She called it a synecdoche for everything that's alive

Sometimes she couldn't sleep with or without light.
Sometimes she'd put her slippers on at 4 a.m. to walk under the stars
With questions about the worth of her fight
Anticipation was her cure but they always left a scar

To tell you the truth, it was as blurred as an addiction
A perfect little couch with strained eyes and words like hope
It was clear as a plan well made with a lack of conviction
And the caffeine in disguise was on a loop

Her path was clear but unnecessarily dark
But she had a lantern still running on kerosene
Her walls never allowed her to learn to hark
Maybe it was the fear of kerosene running out, never the caffeine

I couldn't figure out what her fear was
The faceless howls or the rattling sacks of failure
But I know she cared for what they thought
Mama! was she afraid of the failures?

It's your dream, my son
I don't know what to tell you
It seems like she was on the run
But only she could uncover her truth

She thought her perception was running low on exposure
And the pedagogues she referred to never anticipated this dilemma
She ran in between her choices and broken composure
But the words eluded as if they were trying to defame her

In the supposed end it wasn't a human that cradled her
Neither the man-made fiddled sins.
It was a tender breeze,
The warmth of the sun on a mountain peak,
The candour of how a newborn sees,
It was a reflection of everything she could be.
That feeling had to carry her heavy soul,
Through the vast deserts of anxiety
Through the place where dreams fold.

There were graves of forced dreams,
The tombstones bore the names of those who had slain them
She was looking for her name it seems,
Sadly, it wasn't her epic requiem

Her vision was yet to be edified and her soul was yet to feel a craving.
Hence that feeling carried her in vain,
And it bade farewell with a kiss & a bruise,
Which she uses to smith concepts that still keeps her sane.

So that her midnight perambulations are justified
for a brief moment
Where she washes her selfish spree 
With words of compassion and it's her atonement.

She felt enlightened for every child she made smile
every crackle added a little height to her flight
But she was never more wrong when it all dissipated,
The earth came calling and she fell like a lost kite.

The prejudices were yet to be nerfed.
Because life always asked for more to sustain its belief,
Belief in the concepts described in words,
But creating a world on paper was easier than to achieve

Mama! I don't know what it all means
It all makes sense for a moment
Right before it shatters into smithereens
Making the world a better place is harder than it seems

My son, your existence makes my world a better place
I know it's not the answer you were looking for
I feel it's not herself she has to replace
It's the wall of premonition with doubts as decor

Mama! I think that's why a fiction was born
She was a queen wishing to live on the road
Where she could fight every day's mystical battles
Where the sky was the roof to the castle she called her abode

But that castle was too big for her,
So she allowed the world in there to sleep
This way her life turned to fiction every day,
And soon there was a knock from reality.

The shortlived fiction had changed the definitions forever,
Her sanity represented other people's insanity,
And the people of textbooks made the way back obscure
That's how she lost her fiction where everyone was happy.

With her happy fiction lost, she was forced to confront reality,
Where she had nothing to lose,
Still, uncertain consternation at that moment had her speak.
After years she heard herself conversing to her soul,

She felt like growing up in reverse, with preconceptions fading away.
Only then she gained the long lost affinity,
The affinity with that prodigal feeling that once carried her heavy soul,
And this time it wasn't in vain.

Mama! am I Mundane?
I too do things again and again,
But she earned that prodigal feeling, that's insane
When will I earn that revelation with my name?

My son, we all are Mundane
We too do things again and again
Her revelation came near the story's end,
But your story has just commenced.

But tell me why is her name Mundane?
Because she does things again and again.
And why does she do things again and again?
perseverance?? I guess. You might wanna hear what happens then?

She set out to achieve that world in her papers,
That endeavour asked for nothing more than a clean slate,
The slate which had society in its microscopic craters,
Then that prodigal feeling of uncertain happiness in a distant future worked as the scraper.

Some faces turned about,
Some voices stopped calling,
But she had to climb that artsy wall of doubts,
Made out of voluntary concerned warnings

The world didn't make sense on the other side,
But her guilt was now truly washed,
And the compassion was worth the cost,
Sure there was a speck of sadness left,
For the people & moments, she lost,
But she lost so much of herself to get a living,
So I guess she'll just lay without a care, for a while.

Mama! she didn't get the answers she was looking for.
But she gets to make her own sense of the world.
Is that what I need to do to feel more?
You do what you do best,
but first, climb that artsy wall of yours.

Look here, look here
Hear hear, hear hear
There's a man back from the dumps of life.