| And so his epic began
|
| With the touch of pen to paper
|
| Had he forfeit liberty?
|
| Was equality greater? |
| Oh…
|
| His blameless head
|
| His blameless head
|
| And what of my tale?
|
| Would it ever be sung?
|
| Could I live through the war?
|
| To spill the words from my tongue?
|
| Or would we both end up dead?
|
| Would we both end up dead?
|
| Was it worse to bid farewell than to watch him fall?
|
| Was his life worth ten others, ten others
|
| Killed with merciless gail?
|
| We’d learn to paint the sands red
|
| We’d learn to paint them red
|
| Would my hand be steady now
|
| To commit, to commit this awful task?
|
| We’d learn to paint the sands red
|
| Spew forward heated shells
|
| From the trigger, from the trigger in my grasp
|
| We’d learn to paint the sands red
|
| His blameless head
|
| Would we both end up dead?
|
| We’d learn to paint the sands red |