Synthesized Framework (v1)

Lyrics

Strings on the low top wire, the amp warms up, a holy fire.
A bow draws back, a breathless hope, before a story starts, before it's told.
Six o'clock, the sun bleeds gold, across the grass where shadows grow cold.
Man stands in a shifting light, with eyes like flint, a steely sight.
He pulls the blade, a silver thread, cutting through the air, the smoke and air.
The wind picks up a dry, pale sound, carrying dust that never hits the ground.
One low breeze, a shock of man, the horizon cracks, the land is changed.
No room for fear, no place to run, just steel upon the setting sun.
This is the road, lonely and free, dancing on the edge of destiny.
What goes with it is the golden light, piercing through the pain.
The strings unwind, the world spins slow, watching the last horizon go.
Shadow stretches long and wide, with nowhere left for anything to hide.
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.
A crowd disperses scattered grain, the smoke hangs low across the plain.
He doesn't speak, he doesn't care, about the burning of the air.
It's just the hum of metal, deep and true, a promise that is never new.
The dust settles in a thick gray layer over every single breathless prayer.
And if you listen close to the chord, you'll hear the fear, the hope, the sore.
It's not the fighting, it's the cost of finding out what life has lost.
The stream stops tight, a sudden sting, and the beach chills, nothing to bring.
But silence now, a heavy weight, sealing up the broken game.
Yeah, yeah, this is the hope, the lone and free.
Time's dancing on the edge of destiny, up goes within.
The golden light piercing through the fading night.
The strings unwind, the world spins slow, watching the last horizon go.
The shadow stretches long and wide with no lair left for anything to hide.
But the sun lifts down, the bleed is gone, the sword is dropped on grass and stone.
He walks away, in a fading light, into the dark, earless mind.
No sound remains, no traces left.
Just the echo of the harp, the beat, and the strings are still.
Heidegger.