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Withered and broken man. |
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So fragile, so frail, so undignified by standards. |
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But they will never break him. |
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He has found his place. |
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This harmless hero that they patronize |
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Is but a saint. |
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Can't you feel his pain and lost love |
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Inside this decorated soldier? |
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Infinite patience. |
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The sticks and stones they throw, |
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They scar his flesh, shatter bone. |
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But they will never break him. |
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He has found his place. |
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This harmless hero that they patronize |
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Is but a saint. |
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Can't you feel his pain, lost love, |
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Inside this decorated soldier? |
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His only friend, the night. |
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The calm, the quiet cold. |
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But you'll never seem him cry. |
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But they will never know, never know, |
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Know his name. |
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These sad old songs he sings are solid gold. |
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They resonate. |
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The hate we've shown him, |
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He'll carry to his resting place. |
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The hate we've shown him, |
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He'll carry to a lonely grave. |
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So leave him in the darkness. NO. |
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Leave him hopeless, social creation. |
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Leave him with sickness. |
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But let it be said, that's how he looks at you. |
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Can't you feel his pain and lost love, |
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Inside this decorated soldier? |
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His only friend, the night. |
|
The calm and quiet cold. |
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But you'll never see him cry. |
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And on that day he reached out. |
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He grabbed, pulled me close. |
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He whispered to me in a voice barely audible. |
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He said, "This life is what you make it. |
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Don't let it pass you by. |
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If you don't care whether you live or die |
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You're the most alive you'll ever be." |
