I built a ladder out of "more," each rung a hollow goal.

I climbed towards a phantom sun, to save a fleeting soul.

The higher that I managed to ascend in burning flight…

…the more the world below just faded into night.

And I wonder, if this "I" is just a story that I tell…

Then who is building monuments that lead to their own hell?

What is the harvest for a self that cannot be defined?

Just shavings from the Uncarved Block, upon an Assembly Line.

I polished every achievement 'til it shone a sterile white.

A perfect, lonely trophy in a solitary night.

I offered them to emptiness, and whispered, "This is me."

But the offering was hollow, for the "me" I could not see.

And I wonder, if this "I" is just a story that I tell…

Then who is building monuments that lead to their own hell?

What is the harvest for a self that cannot be defined?

Just shavings from the Uncarved Block, upon an Assembly Line.

But the 神 (Shén) of us, the river-flow, the spirit of the land…

It doesn't ask for monuments, it asks a helping hand.

To nurture something real and shared, to plant a common seed.

This is a different, deeper kind of work, a slower, vital need.

And I wonder, if this "I" is just a story that I tell…

Then who is building monuments that lead to their own hell?

What is the harvest for a self that cannot be defined?

Just shavings from the Uncarved Block, upon an Assembly Line.

So I step down from the ladder. I let the shavings blow.

The phantom sun can set now; a softer light can grow.

The Block was never meant for carving into dust.

But to be the solid ground, in which we place our common trust.