Tricked out to a different picture, weaving a path thru the sand
Being drifted by the ways of the desert land
Staring at the meadows of the past
To find the way to his own dawn and what is left to come
As a tree would try to gather all its leaves before the winter
Tricked out to a different picture frightened by the blaze
But still attracted by the light to clear the way
So he took his book and walked on on his own
Without remembering that writing are empty in the dark
But the bond fire abounded when the sun came down
How does he feel knowing he's lost his way
Midst of flux is rather gray
If you don't know what this story could say
Midst of flux might be on your way
Tricked out to a different picture weaving a path thru the night
Pushed and whistled by the wind that rides a tide
Came across an old man with a cane in hand
Then the young one said "I'm on my way to the den"
Long beard before his smile long past behind his eyes he replied
"Are you listening to see what's going on"
"Yes I'm trying hard", he said, as if some day was gonna come
That knowing all would lead to where he's coming from
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