It starts with distant thunder Born under skies, dressed in ochre. Pressure rising up and over The anticipating land. Under layers of white noise And through the static, sounds a voice. I want to hear the song it sings again (and again, and again) I remained outside, With every nerve alive. Lightning struck without remorse And gave a cue to move indoors. The TV died, as did the lights. In the dark the radio came to life. Under layers of white noise And through static, sounds a voice. I want to hear the song it sings again (and again, and again) The secret station of my choice... Forgotten music in the noise, Inviting me to dance a minor dance. Faded an ethereal music that is dying to be heard. Desperate to mesmerise and capture our hearts. Wander in beauty, and wonder where I've been... Faded a ethereal music that is dying to be heard. Desperate to mesmerise and capture our hearts (again) Aided by a thunderstorm, I came upon this station from old days. I intend to seek it out again when I need shelter from the rain. I wander in beauty, and wonder where I've been.