| Watching from the sidelines
|
| Dancing on the land mines
|
| Exploding through the headlines:
|
| «The new front is on the move.»
|
| Caught in the crosshairs of a war we didn’t wage
|
| Tanks roam the borders of this town
|
| Poised to restore what they tear down
|
| Don’t let their battles wear you down
|
| They take the reins. |
| I wonder:
|
| Why do they parade in this season’s rain?
|
| Why do the seasons refuse to change?
|
| The ceiling creaks, the hillside speaks:
|
| «Don't let me cling to history
|
| And more than that please don’t take me back.»
|
| Still, the bombs rain down
|
| Tanks roam the borders of this town
|
| Poised to restore what they tear down
|
| Don’t let their battles wear you down
|
| Everybody is singing so loud that
|
| The crowds can be heard abroad
|
| At the American Universities
|
| Can’t you hear how they’re cheering us on?
|
| The fruits of the revolution must only be days away
|
| But still I feel it won’t be long
|
| Until they’re not asking anymore
|
| They’re not asking anymore
|
| If today’s the day we make their grade
|
| Will the armies with draw or will they stay tomorrow?
|
| Tanks roam the borders of this town
|
| Poised to restore what they tear down
|
| Don’t let their battles wear you
|
| Don’t let their battles wear you
|
| Don’t let their battles wear you down |