The anthill keeps growing, more teetering, hopeless homes
While teeming in their multitudes, twelve million worker drones
All of these paralysed souls, indistinguishable, all smeared in soot
The mark of the muted, well it paints us the same, from our head to our foot
So extend our limbs, stretch out our hands to touch
Just anything, that is not weighted in dust
Reaching out for an empty space or the contours of a friendly face
In the chaos
The anthill collapses, yet constructed again
Building on the bones of its fallible men
Construction it never does stop, and if a body drops we’ll brick it back in
Exoskeletons formed this city’s skin
While we, while we, while we, while we
While we extend our limbs, stretch out our hands to touch
Just anything, that is not weighted in dust
Reaching out for an empty space or the contours of a friendly face
In the chaos
Now I’m carried on the back of billions, though I do not know their names
Something fossilised within us that could still be reclaimed
They thought us worker drones did not have much to say
But they kept us busy anyway
Now the water cannons will not hold us back
They will simple wash the filth away
And if every one of us could carry six times our own weight
They’d be really no limits to the utopia we might make
Oh we gotta wake up, howl some questions to the hive
If we were conscious of our direction
We would do more than just survive
So extend our limbs, stretch out our hands to touch
Just anything, that is not weighted in dust
Open our minds, spit the silt from our voice
Claim everything, a separate and collective choice
Reaching out for an empty space or the contours of a friendly face
Zambian-Scottish singer-songwriter pushes back against existential despair with empassioned folk-pop that celebrates love and resilience. Bandcamp New & Notable Oct 25, 2023