| From the fields of the burning wheat | |
| to the corners of the black arcades, | |
| we hold our hands like cigarettes. | |
| Then we leave them dying in the grass. | |
| The road is running out. | |
| We see it over our shoulders with everything we've lost: | |
| fields of flowers, balanced powers, | |
| they're in recession with everything we love. | |
| Freedom fading like voices ringing. | |
| I feel it drifting away. | |
| When you raise your head | |
| and you fall down to your knees, | |
| while you wait for it, | |
| we're running fast as we can | |
| down a street with no end. | |
| Last night I had a dream that we were floating in the sea | |
| with flags all around us but now the colors had washed out. | |
| They were left innocent and free, | |
| and there were bombers riding shotgun in the sky. | |
| They all turned into light and spread like stars | |
| across the trembling black night. | |
| They're calling you now. | |
| So make the sign of the Southern Cross | |
| and I will follow you down. | |
| Hills of wonder, rolling thunder, | |
| off in the distance with everything we love. | |
| Freedom fading like voices ringing. | |
| I feel it drifting away. | |
| When you raise your head | |
| and you fall down to your knees, | |
| do you feel ashamed? | |
| We're running fast as we can | |
| down a street with no end. | |
| Take me home. | |
| Keep running as fast as you can | |
| because there's no place to turn on a street with no end. | |
| (Still the bombs blast, | |
| and the bells ring, | |
| and the flags fly, | |
| and we all keep on | |
| marching to heaven | |
| to find out we all fall down again.) |
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