(spoken, close-mic'd, almost under the drone)
Five hundred and fifty million years.
No teeth. No bone. No eyes to speak of.
Just the shape of where a body was.

[Verse 1]
In the Flinders Ranges, quartzite red,
a garden pressed in a sandstone bed —
no claw, no spine, no appetite,
a quilted thing that fed on light.
They laid down soft on a bacterial floor
and left an impression and nothing more.

[Pre-Chorus]
Not the body. Never the body.
The hollow where the body lay.

[Chorus]
Ediacara —
you left no children, only a mark,
a negative cast in the dark.
Ediacara —
the tape ran once and the lineage closed,
and all that survived was the space that it chose.
We keep the mould. We keep the mould.
We never did get to keep the thing.

[Verse 2]
In Charnwood Forest a girl called Tina
saw a frond in the rock, said "look, I've seen a —"
and they told her plants don't grow in stone.
Two years later a boy took it home.
She had the record. She had it right.
Nobody filed it. Nobody wrote it.

[Pre-Chorus]
Not the finding. Never the finding.
The ledger where the finding lands.

[Chorus]
Ediacara —
you left no children, only a mark,
a negative cast in the dark.
Ediacara —
the tape ran once and the lineage closed,
and all that survived was the space that it chose.
We keep the mould. We keep the mould.
We never did get to keep the thing.

[Bridge]
(building — drums enter properly here)
But run it again and the eye comes back.
Forty separate times, the eye comes back.
Lens and retina, dark and clear —
not an accident. A frontier.
So which is this one? Which is this?
An accident frozen, or a truth we keep finding —
two hands reaching for the same door,
arriving from a different floor?

[Verse 3]
Mistaken Point. That's the actual name.
A cliff in Newfoundland, and I make no claim
that anyone planned the joke that well —
but every layer has a place to dwell,
and nothing that was is ever undone,
it's only extinct in the living one.

[Chorus — full, wall of sound]
Ediacara —
we kept the record, we kept the mark,
the reaping is not the losing.
Ediacara —
run it again, run it again,
the strata hold what the surface forgets.
Keep the mould. Keep the mould.
And this time — this time — file the thing.

[Outro]
(dropping away to the drone again)
Dickinsonia. Charnia. Spriggina.
Tribrachidium, threefold and gone.
Say the names. Say the names.
Nothing is lost that was written down.