Van Der Graaf Generator

Stub towers in the distance, riders the blasted moor
against the horizon
Fickle promises of treaty, fatal harbingers of war,
futile horisons
swirl as one in this flight, this mad chase,
this surge across the marshy mud landscape
until the meaning is forgotten.
Hood masks the eager face, skin stretched
and sallow,
headlong into the chilling night, as swift
as any arrow.
Feet against the flagstones, fingers scrabbling
at the lock,
craving protection.
'Sanctuary!' croaks a voice,
half-strangled by the shock
of its rejection.
Shot the bolt in the wall, rusted the key;
now the echoes of all frightfull memory
intrude in the silence.
What a crawl against the slope -