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