| Just one crazy moment while the dice are cast
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| He looks into the future and remembers what is past
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| Wonders what he’s doing on this battlefield
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| Shrugs to his shadow, impatient, too proud yet to kneel
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| In his wake he leaves scorched earth and work in vain;
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| Smoke drifts up behind him — he is free again
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| Free to run before the onslaught of a deadly foe
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| Leaving nothing fit for pillage, hardly leaving home
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| It’s far too late to turn, unless it’s to stone
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| Charging madly forward, tracks across the snow;
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| Wind screams madness to him, ever on he goes
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| Leaving spoor to mark his passage, trace his weary climb
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| Cross the moor and make the headland —
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| Stumbling, wayward, blind
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| In the end his footprints extend as one single line
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| This latest exponent of heresy is goaded into an attack
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| Persuaded to charge at his enemy
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| Too late, he knows it is
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| Too late now to turn back, too soon by far to falter
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| The past sits uneasily at his rear
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| He’s walking right into the trap
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| Surrounded, but striving through will and fear
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| Ahead of him he knows there waits an ambuscade
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| But the dice slip through his fingers
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| And he’s living from day to day
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| Carrying his world around upon his back
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| Leaving nothing behind but the tell-tale of his track
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| He will not be hostage, he will not be slave
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| No snare of past can trap him, though the future may
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| Still he runs and burns behind him in advanced retreat;
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| Still his life remains unfettered — he denies defeat
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| It’s far too late to turn, unless it’s to stone
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| Leave the past to burn — at least that’s been his own
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| Scorched earth, that’s all that’s left when he’s done;
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| Holding nothing but beholden to no-one
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| Claiming nothing, out of no false pride, he survives
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| Snow tracks are all that’s left to be seen
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| Of a man who entered the course of a dream
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| Claiming nothing but the life he’s known
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| — this, at least, has been his own |