“The dance of life goes ‘round and ‘round,
and ‘round the center goes.
One by one, we fall away
and see the circle close.”
From far away, they come to play,
to dance and laugh and sing,
these peaceful souls from east of Nod
who never harm a thing.
Quite small and shy, with searching eyes,
a happy little grin.
They journey up the winding path
to seek a friend within.
Like nightingales, they never fail
to sing their little songs.
So, sing they do, as sing they must,
they sing their way along:
“The dance of life goes ‘round and ‘round,
and ‘round the center goes.
One by one, we fall away
and see the circle close.”
The sunbaked sand, their desert land,
is strange and little known.
The Sons of Cain are what they’re called,
they live but to atone.
They do not know, ‘twas long ago,
so ancient songs have told,
of faith misplaced and rage unleashed
and deeds of brothers bold.
‘Twas long ago and far below
these fabled hills of yore,
that ancient Cain was sent away
and lost in mists of lore.
Through the years they journey here,
pulled as if by string.
Beyond their ken, they know not why;
with joy, they simply sing:
“The dance of life goes ‘round and ‘round,
and ‘round the center goes.
One by one, we fall away
and see the circle close.”
“Come and play,” the wise ones say,
“beyond a posied path.
In spring-fed fields and breezes cool,
escape the desert’s wrath.”
This trip they take, fulfilling fate,
believing in the lies,
has brought them here, they cannot see
what’s right before their eyes.
By three, by four they come, and more,
like lemmings to the sea;
to drown themselves in life, they think,
they whistle far and wee.
“The dance of life goes ‘round and ‘round,
and ‘round the center goes.
One by one, we fall away
and see the circle close.”
Beyond the gate, there lies a field
of meadow grass and flowers.
‘Tis here they play and dance and sing
away their final hours.
A giant lives within a cave,
plain as it can be.
Their innocence had made them blind:
they think that they are free.
The giant kills them all with skill,
he has no need for chains.
He kills them all; he grinds them up,
now no one else remains.
The center cannot hold, we’re told,
refusing to see why.
We march along this weary path
and sing until we die:
“The dance of life goes ‘round and ‘round,
and ‘round the center goes.
One by one, we fall away
and see the circle close.”
