The priests walk their procession,
In a landscape of the soul;
They follow paths their ancestors have made.
The pilgrims make their progress,
Towards a martyr's tomb;
The taverns make their profit from the trade.

The marching feet of armies
Spell trouble on the move.
They straighten out the curves to speed their end.
They fly the flag in passing,
To demonstrate the power
They hold in every corner of the land.

He walks this road just to see where it goes.
His restless feet won't let him stop.
From green road track to the highway broad.
The generations all have trod…