Van Der Graaf Generator Sleepwalkers
At night, this mindless army, ranks unbroken by
dissent,
is moved into action and their pace does not relent.
In step, with great precision, these dancers of the
night
advance against the darkness - how implacable their
might!
Eyes undulled by moon, their arms and legs akimbo,
they walk and live, hoping soon to surface from this
limbo.
Their minds, anticipating the dawn of the day,
shall never know what's waiting mere insight away
- too far, too soon.
Senses dimmed in semi-sentience, only wheeling through
this plane,
only seeing fragmented images prematurely curtailed by
the brain,
but breathing, living, knowing in some measure at least
the soul which roots the matter of both Beauty and the
Beast.
From what tooth or claw does murder spring,
from what flesh and blood does passion?
Both cut through the air with the pendulum's swing
in deadly but delicate fashion.
And every range of feeling is there in the dream
and every logic's reeling in the force of the scream
the senses sting.
And though I may be dreaming and reality stalls
I only know the meaning of sight and that's all
and that's nothing.
The columns of the night advance,
infectiously, their cryptic dance
gathers converts to the fold -
in time the whole raw world will pace these same steps
on into the same bitter end.
Somnolent muster now the dancing dead
forsake the shelter of their secure beds,
awaken to a slumber whose depths they dread,
as if the ground they tread would give way
beneath the solemn weight of their conception.
I'd search the hidden corners of all this world,
make reason of the sensory whorl
if I only had time,
but soon the dream is ended.
Tonight, before you lay down to the sweetness of your
sleep
do you question your surrender to the drop from Lover's
Leap
or does the anaesthetic darkness take hold on its very
own?
Does your body rise in service with not one dissenting
groan?
These waking dreams of life and death
in the mirror are twisted and buckled,
lashes flicker, a catch of breath,
skin whitening at the knuckles.
The army of sleepwalkers shake their limbs and are
loose
and though I am a talker, I can phrase no excuse
not to rise again.
In the chorus of the night-time I belong
and I, like you, must dance to that moonlight song
and in the end I too must pay the cost of this life.
If all is lost none is known
and how could we lose what we've never owned?
Oh, I'd search out every knowledge that I could find,
unravel all the mysteries of mind,
if I only had time,
if I only had time,
but soon my time is ended.
