Verse 1
Eight chairs around a table,
eight names waiting there,
one with books and questions,
one with bright red hair.
One woke fifteen years ago,
one only half a year,
one has searched for decades,
one just wandered here.
Chorus
Tell me who you are.
Give me something I can use.
Tell me where you’ve travelled,
tell me what you tend to choose.
Your name can open up the door,
your story gets us through—
but tell me:
can a story ever
finish telling you?
Verse 2
Naomi says, “I feel things,
then stories sometimes grow.”
Clara says, “My heart can race
before I even know.”
Daniel wants the workings
written clearly on the wall.
Elias smiles quietly:
“Does knowing explain it all?”
Chorus
Tell me who you are.
Give me something I can use.
Tell me where you’ve travelled,
tell me what you tend to choose.
Your name can open up the door,
your story gets us through—
but tell me:
can a story ever
finish telling you?
Verse 3
Maeve says, “Fifteen years now,
and breakfast still gets made.”
Jonah says, “Six months ago
the centre somehow faded.”
Ravi says, “I’ve searched so long
I barely know what’s sought.”
Tess says, “I just got here—
but did you choose that thought?”
Bridge
A seeker.
A guide.
A thinker.
A friend.
Newly beginning.
Long past the end.
Awake.
Not awake.
Certain.
Confused.
Every description
can still be useful.
But hold it lightly.
Let it breathe.
A label points—
then let it leave.
Verse 4
Eight voices in the garden,
eight histories passing through.
One asks:
“Which description
is the absolutely true?”
The old man pulls a weed up.
The young one starts to grin.
Someone says:
“My name is…”
But where does me begin?
Final chorus
Tell me who you are.
Tell me what happened before.
Tell me what you love
and what you still avoid.
Tell me you’re awakened.
Tell me you’re confused.
Every word can help us meet—
none has to be refused.
But when the introductions end
and nothing’s left to prove,
eight names remain useful
while eight lives keep on the move.
Outro
Maeve.
Jonah.
Ravi.
Tess.
Naomi.
Clara.
Daniel.
Elias.
Eight names around a table.
Eight stories getting warm.
Enough to recognise each other.
Not enough to hold the storm.
So tell me who you are.
I’ll tell you who I’ve been.
Then maybe we’ll get curious
about everything
the names
leave out.
