Stub towers in the distance, riders the blasted moor
|
against the horizon
|
Fickle promises of treaty, fatal harbingers of war,
|
futile horisons
|
swirl as one in this flight, this mad chase,
|
this surge across the marshy mud landscape
|
until the meaning is forgotten.
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Hood masks the eager face, skin stretched
|
and sallow,
|
headlong into the chilling night, as swift
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as any arrow.
|
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Feet against the flagstones, fingers scrabbling
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at the lock,
|
craving protection.
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'Sanctuary!' croaks a voice,
|
half-strangled by the shock
|
of its rejection.
|
Shot the bolt in the wall, rusted the key;
|
now the echoes of all frightfull memory
|
intrude in the silence.
|
What a crawl against the slope -
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dark loom the gallows
|
One touch to the chapel door,
|
how swiftly comes the arrow.
|
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"Compassion" you plead, as though
|
they kept it in a box
|
- that's long since been empty.
|
I'd like to help you somehow,
|
but I'm in the self-same spot:
|
my condition exempts me.
|
We are all on the run on our knees;
|
the sundial draws a line upon eternity
|
across every number.
|
How long the time seems, how dark the shadow,
|
how straight the eagle flies,
|
how straight towards his arrow.
|
How long the night is -
|
why is this passage so narrow?
|
How strange my body feels,
|
impaled upon the arrow.
|
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Arrow
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Van Der Graaf Generator |