Panama hat, mirror sunglasses, watch it fly
State of the art, post-apocalyptic in the pitch-black night
I always see it on the boulevard, shamanic sight
And maybe now it's just too late to ask
Where is the fire?
I cannot see the smoke or smell the ash
Where is the fire?
Maybe they talk about you when you dance
Where is the
High of the light
Coming back to get you when the night falls down
I never thought I'll sing this sharp
But time hits differently
Where is the fire?
Where is the fire?
Where is the fire?
Where is the fire?