Build them high and wide, these walls against the world
raise them until the songs of the wasteland fade to whispers
and become only echoes lost in the glare of a midnight sun...
He who lives in fear gives way to shadows
Certain of the doom laid out for him by the stars
A patchwork tapestry of fraying ends and holes torn away
The words once whispered to him in the deep of night...
Light shows play out along a gossamer thread
In air the wild ones breathed
A beast of many eyes is ready to lift you out
Should color lose its meaning, or gain it anew...
There was clay in the ground I clawed through
Pulling myself back to the surface
To sit in a rainstorm I longed for years to feel again
And I began to shape the clay...
Impossible sky of cloud and color
Pulsing overhead with the power of the word
Like a blow from heaven, march of drum beats,
Behind it waits the end of days.