| Every step that we tread,
|
| The dead are behind us;
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| Throwing shadows out over our heads,
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| And they live far in front of us.
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| No oceans left to cross, no mountains left to climb,
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| 'Cause that’s what I’ve been told,
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| And it’s got so hard to look around
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| And see just who can save you, if you don’t have a pot of gold.
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| Was there ever a time
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| Like this?
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| As the noise of the past
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| Builds up into a crescendo,
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| The layers of rubbish makes their plea
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| Amplified a million times or more
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| But our heads just can’t cope, as we fall
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| Into the arms of the waiting mystics,
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| Books burning, barrels turning--
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| A billion wasted futures light up the night sky.
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| Small hopes flash past the
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| While foreign forces wait and pray,
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| And a fear of the future is so deep in our hearts,
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| That they’ll all but destroy ourselves
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| Like the centuries-old feuds
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| Being updated with high-tech weapons
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| In the end it’s not the future,
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| But the past, that’ll get us.
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| I always believed like this cost lives,
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| That’s why I was always in line for the sacrifice,
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| But now my eyes point ahead
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| Away from the ghosts of the dead. |