(Verse 1)
In the midst of a pandemic, the colors start to blend,  
A canvas for the soul, where gestures start to mend,  
From the depths of isolation, creativity takes flight,  
Marks on paper, words in ink, through the day and night.

(Pre-Chorus)
Frottage is the name, a rub to reveal,  
Patterns of existence, what’s hidden to feel,  
With each stroke of the pencil, and each brush on the page,  
Art becomes the process, a journey to engage.

(Chorus)
It’s frottages and fiction, where the marks and the words collide,  
In a dance of creation, where the truth and the art reside,  
Colors and forms are blending, the past and the present meet,  
In the ritual of making, where the spirit finds its beat.

(Verse 2)  
“Frotter” means to rub, from the French it starts to flow,  
On a surface, in the silence, where the deeper meanings grow,  
Painting and printing, textures intertwine,  
Leave behinds from the past, where the old and new align.

(Pre-Chorus)  
Each mark tells a story, each color is a trace,  
Of moments and intentions, the process we embrace,  
Blurring lines of the sacred, between art and the life,  
A tribute to the making, through the beauty and the strife.

(Bridge)
The flow and the rupture, of visibility and sound,  
Questions of the meaning in the patterns we’ve found,  
From the written to the painted, from the past to the now,  
Art becomes the journey, let the process show us how.

(Chorus)
It’s frottages and fiction, where the marks and the words collide,  
In a dance of creation, where the truth and the art reside,  
Colors and forms are blending, the past and the present meet,  
In the ritual of making, where the spirit finds its beat.

(Outro)
So let the frottages guide you, and let the fiction unfold,  
In the dance of creation, where the stories are told,  
Through the rubbing and the painting, where the visions are clear,  
In the art of the process, find the essence that’s here.