There are still echoes of stillness
on a painted mountainside
somewhere east of nowhere
where our nameless hero died

And the dead bend down to kiss your feet,
they have nothing left to say
And the living men don't understand
but they praise you anyway

Now all remember what you swore
two hundred years too late
They touch your stone, they shake their heads
but they refuse to wait

I'm standing where the old house was
above your basement room
in a scorching blacktop graveyard
a long, long way from home.