Dark times saw Pluto forge the way,
Shooting through temporal visions to conceive,
Burn the brass away to say,
Here I stand, man without leave.
I cut the Path and sow the seed,
Which existed somewhere before
My provident lead
Only pointed to the shore.
I exist, new things come my way,
I persist, tomorrow shall be The Day.
Tomorrow is The Day,
The Sweet Lord takes these chains from my feet,
Tomorrow is the Day,
My Sweet Lord and I shall meet.
Each new thing interpret and translate,
Each new sensation moulded to a golden arrow
Which pierces the skin of each untamed fate,
And chooses each elysian field to lie fallow.
Follow on, dear crowd,
One's confidence,
Knows no bounds,
Onward, we shall be led,
Onward, unto the Heavenly Sounds.
The order of personal anarchy may not conceive,
To get lost in the senses, abandoning intellect,
Transcending vulgar mimesis
And adding to the weave,
- But wait, now,
- What? The audacity!
- You overtake me?
- Turn me in while I give you advice?
Well, onward and tomorrow,
My Sweet Lord shall throw these binds from me,
These restrictions and constrictions,
Which, protecting no-one,
Tomorrow I shall be free of.
Tomorrow is The Day,
The Sweet Lord takes these chains from my feet,
Tomorrow is the Day,
My Sweet Lord and I shall meet.
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