[Intro – distorted trip hop samples] O Mother mine… hearest thou the whisper’d sound? A murm’ring from the ether, low and round… It calleth softly: “Ride, make haste anon,” As though some unseen hand would urge me on. [Verse 1 – narrative, elevated tone, flanged guitar phrasing] In seven-and-seventy’s dawn I ply’d my trade, A tumbler bold, in feign’d mishap well paid, Till came a charge: “Drive forth, no questions ask’d,” Yet in that chart a stranger will was mask’d. Through sun-scorch’d courts and markets thick with guile, Each visage wore too smooth, too fix’d a smile. [Pre-Chorus – phat bass tension, repetition] Too many names, yet little truth therein, Too many cries: “Come, enter! Enter in!” Full many roads might lead a man away— Yet still I mount, nor turn I back this day. [Chorus – grand, rhythmic, parallelism, drum weird solo gets freaky] Ride, ride, ride – I dare not stay nor cease, Though roads themselves deny me sense or peace, Flee, flee, flee – so bid they unto me, Yet fast I bide where wheel and will agree. Ride, ride, ride – through dust and fleeting hour, ’Twixt gilded lies and men that hunger power, And who soe’er at last the prize may win— I was the hand that set the motion in. [Verse 2 – quicker, shifting filterbank voices, trip hop tone] “’Tis history!” quoth one – “’Tis coin!” another cried, “’Tis but a task…” said I, yet truth they all denied. A scribe attends, as though the end were writ, Whilst I through scenes like some rash player flit. The mirrors show me forms I scarce may know, And from behind strange mutterings ebb and flow. [Bridge – operatic, call & response, heightened choir finals] — Turn thee back! — Too late! — The relic true doth lie! — Or naught but fable spun to snare the eye! — Thou dost not trust it! — Trust I but the way! — And if it swallow thee? — Then truth hath had its day! [Break – sparse, philosophical] Perchance… there is no prize at all. Perchance… we are the thing men seek. [Chorus – expanded, echoing] Ride, ride, ride – I dare not stay nor rest, Though reason falter sore within my breast, Flee, flee, flee – their voices ever near, Yet still I hold the course that brought me here. [Outro – soft, delay effects, cyclical with no ending] O Mother mine… the murm’ring now is still, No voice remains, save engine, iron will, The chart lies blank, its secrets fled from me— Yet on I ride… alone… unbound… and free.
