The rain falls heavy here,
Heavier than any other part of the world.
You can see the drops lying on the farmhouse,
Lying in the bucket,
Lying on the ground,
Here, in the house with no name,
In the town with no name,
In my own world, with no name.

The skies are not blue here, or white, or silver,
The grass is not green, or blue, but yellow,
all the time, yellow.
Every day yellow,
Here, in the house with no name,
In the town with no name,
In my own world with no name.

I walk slowly,
Treasuring every step,
Watching the blank footsteps that follow me ,
No distinct shape, or color, or line, or feel,
They watch every step I take,

What I would do to leave,
To see blue skis, green grass, black roads,
No blank footsteps, no work, no farm,

This place has caused me to lose my identity,
In it having no name of it’s own,
I’ve lost my imagination, and a part of my soul,
Here, in the house with no name,
In the town with no name,
In my own world, with no name.