As a slave to differential rotation
You cannot escape before eons have passed
As a servant to progression's motivation
You won't leave until the future is the past

As a product of what we call inventions
We cannot run before we can walk
As a victim of a myriad of intentions
We must learn to think before we talk

Swept in the circles of endless repetition
Trapped in orbit around microscopic riddles

The answer's echo eliminates the question
Our unnatural nature keeps rotating between two cradles