|
Behind all the rusting cranes, in the lengthening shadows of the Empire days |
|
there's a world that waits, but it's not needed. |
|
In the teeming rows behind the goal - yelling for blood on the pitch below; |
|
where does all the passion go when it's not needed? |
|
Over the wire, and into the darkness . . . |
|
Come evangelists of the Grand New Age proclaiming the future that they stole, |
|
condemning the things they can't control - just like the priests before; |
|
and now I can hear them call - the ghosts of the 1914-18 war |
|
Where do all the innocents go when they're not needed? |
|
Over the wire and into the darkness . . . |
|
And the dawn it will come like blood across the sky, |
|
Not the way that you think, not the way that you dream |
|
In the silence of God, in the fullness of time, |
|
like blood across the sky - the dawn it will come - the dawn it will come. |
|
All still, like the pitshafts and the two-mile-down where they buried their hearts; |
|
where does all the loyalty go when it's not needed? |
|
In the plastic seats behind the goal yelling for blood on the pitch below; |
|
where does all the passion go when it's not needed? |
|
Over the wire and into the darkness . . . |
