These days of wandering
Blood blindfold armory
I want to hold you close
Oh, comfort me
We’ll glide down these crowded streets
And see the kids who plead
For something to love
If this is all there is
Hashtags and genesis
And heads of state all made from
Papier mâché
We’re washing the eyelids
Of our kin
It’s mourning in America
I keep dreaming that I'm climbing up a dusty road
To the top of a cold clear mountain
Guided by a voice on the radio, it says
Your feet are the future, so keep on walking
Toward the little piles of broken stones
When silent spring began
It seemed God had a plan
To strip the scales from the eyes of the shiftless
The shirt-sleeved, the Sun-dressed
The new baptized witnesses
But watch how the emperor
Feeds his prey to keep the truth at bay
And now we’re fighting over scraps again
We are the Saints
We are the Saints
But in that dream I see a circle of light and hope
And strangers looking deep in the eyes
Of someone they thought they didn’t know, they say
Your feet are the future, so keep on walking
Toward the little piles of broken stones
These days of wandering
Blood blindfold armory
I want to hold you close
Oh, comfort me
We’ll glide down
These empty streets
And see the blue and green
After the flood
