| Lyrics: | Just one crazy moment while the dice are cast,
he looks into the future and remembers what it
past,
wonders what he's doing on this battlefield,
shrugs to his shadow, impatient, too
proud yet to kneel.
In his wake he leaves scorched earth and work in vain;
smoke
drifts up behind him - he is free again,
free to run before the onslaught of a deadly
foe,
leaving nothing fit for pillage, hardly leaving home.
It's far too late to turn,
unless it's to stone.
Charging madly forward, tracks across the snow,
wind screams madness
to him, ever on he goes
leaving spoor to mark his passage, trace his weary climb.
Cross
the moor and make the headland -
stumbling, wayward, blind.
In the end his
footprints extend as one single line.
This latest exponent of heresy is goaded into an
attack,
persuaded to charge at his enemy.
Too late, he knows it is, too late know to turn
back,
too soon by far to falter.
The past sits uneasily at his rear,
he's walking
right into the trap;
surrounded, but striving through will and fear.
Ahead of him he knows
there waits an ambuscade
but the dice slips through his fingers
and he's living from day
to day,
carrying his world around upon his back,
leaving nothing behind but the tell-tale
of his track.
He will not be hostage, he will not be slave,
no snare of past can
trap him, though the future may.
Still he runs and burns behind him in advanced
retreat;
still his life remains unfettered - he denies defeat.
It's far too late to
turn, unless it's to stone,
Leave the past to burn - at least that's been his
own.
Scorched earth, that's all that's left when he's done;
holding nothing but
beholden to no-one,
claiming nothing, out of no false pride, he survived.
Snow tracks are
all that's left to be seen
of a man who entered the course of a dream,
claiming nothing
but the life he's known
- this, at least, has been his own |
