The Fanfare

It was on the 4th of January, no cloud in the sky. A city breathing heavily, just ticking on by. Men fighting bare chested (they look, I don't know why). We move through the avenues, don't look each other in the eye. Don't know why. A prophet in the desert holds a bud between his fingers, And with his hands exalted he summons his musicians. The drummer beats with bullets so no one is indifferent. They move to the gospel and sing their nursery rhyme, Each time. The empire's crumbling, blown by the storm, History's covered in sand. A fallen angel fires the salute - A hero in the land. The warrior's anointed with statues and flowers, And symphonies commissioned by mysterious powers, And catacombs of riches under shimmering bright towers. He waits for his wings to carry him up in the air – The fanfare. The empire's crumbling, blown by the storm, History's covered in sand. A fallen angel fires the salute - A hero in the land. The empire's crumbling, blown by the storm, History's covered in sand. A fallen angel fires the salute - A hero in the land.