probably

the walls are cardboard, the floor is lava
and we are sitting in melting pond
behind the audience shouting bravo
producers waving a magic wand

il tempo cambia, the weather’s changing
and we are changing, umbrellas lost,
cars run on dirty, exhausted engines,
we clean them daily at any cost

the time is off on the large sundial:
the sun is hidden behind the clouds
we’re always running an extra mile
and end up judged by almighty crowds

so building shelters of guilt and sorrow,
attaching curtains of grief and hope,
and crossing fingers for bright tomorrow
outside our optical periscope