Thursday - Where The Circle Ends текст песни

Mountain ranges

Morning red bathed ridges Stab up at the trembling blue horizon

Grey slides lazily off rooftops, lands on the incandescant ground and dies

A flock of little men touch down on the surface of the porchlight

Bronze footsoldiers return to march the twilight across our faces

Skylights ignite and explode Scattering shards of april around the room

No one even lives here

We're too busy crashing our cars every morning into same house

Paving the same roads unwilling to walk them

And even when we extend ourselves, its only to be included

In a moment that stands still

And so often we don't struggle to improve conditions

We struggle for the right to say we improve conditions

And so often we form communities only to use them as exclusionary devices

And we forget that somewhere man is beside himself with grief

And somewhere people are calling for teachers but no one's answering

Somwhere a man stands, walks across the room, and breaks his nose on the door

And somewhere these people are keeping records, writing a book

For now we can call it The Book About the Basic Flaw

Or The Book About the Letter A

Or Any Title That a Book About a Man That No One Cares About Might Have

And as we turn the pages we call out the sounds of a vanishing alphabet

Standing here waiting

[Thanks to scarton891@hotmail.com for correcting these lyrics]