The winterscape of the long lost home,
The far away house of heartless bone,
Wails the distance of wretched land,
Lost amongst the feet of the marching band.

Snowflakes landing on lifeless leaves,
Forgotten miracles are the ones deceived.
We walk this pointless toil,
Digging our heels into the dead earth's soil.

Footstep after footstep, mountain after mountain,
We drift through, forgetting all but the pain.
None of us know where we are,
But we know that we aren't far.

Now. We don't stop to think this over, not once,
As soon as we stop, we'll be caught by abundance;
We have no destination, so we can never get lost,
But still, we march on, warm hearts shrouded by frost.

Once upon a time, we had the purpose to go on,
But now, lifeless, we just march to the drum,
No concept of what lies over the next crest,
We just walk because walking's what could be best.

Unthought thoughts and untold lies,
Keeping the tears from our eyes.
Somehow, somewhere, our homes wait,
But they're only known by our own fate.

Grey saps the life from every living thing,
Too empty dreams, we know we all cling.
Hope is the fire that keeps us alive,
The warmth that echoes enough to survive.

The drum goes on, as do we all,
Each of us playing our own carousal,
Each mute instrument that all can hear,
Though they fall on only deaf ears.

Numb all over, we drag ourselves onward,
Knowing what we're doing's only half good.
What we're leaving behind, the village of families,
We're just ourselves, but they're lost to the seas.

A marching band, walking to no beat,
Except that of our hearts, the only source of heat.
We'll march until we can't, we'll make it on our own,
To the winterscape of our long lost home.