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 gra**.
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.)