So tell me friend, oh where should I now go
To waste my days within this endless fight?
On to the right where nothing is left, or
There to the left where nothing else is right?

This war grows cold inside my growing bones:
I hide my fears within a house of glass.
But joining them means throwing sticks and stones,
For none of us have yet learned from our past.

My questions to the wise are called naive
And arguments with fools lend no insight.
But in the end I long to just believe
In something that can hold me through the night.

Though life and death will steal my breath away
I will not bow to fear, strain, or dismay.