From Here New Model Army

From the concrete cities
To the wide open spaces
Everything is in tension
And waiting
There's a little gust of wind
And then stillness
A little creak of the timbers
And then silence

We love gallows humour
But there must be a gallows
And a masked pied piper
That everybody follows

We will grow weary of ourselves
And we will dream a king
Then we will bury ourselves

Trouble always begins
With the naming of things
Like gods and desires
And lines in the sand

And now all the sense of scale is gone, and the splinters think they're trees
And the stones believe they're mountains, and the rivers think they're seas
And we all gaze down like little gods, our feathers think they're wings
And the glass believes it's diamond, and the courtiers think they're kings
And the more of this we take inside, the stupider we become
The rose and glow of approaching fire, mistaken for the rising sun