“Sound the Bugle”

“Sound the Bugle”

Lyrics by Gavin Greenaway
Written for the soundtrack of
Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron

Sound the bugle now… play it just for me
As the seasons change… remember how I used to be
Now I can’t go on…I can’t even start
I’ve got nothing left… just an empty heart.

I’m a soldier… wounded so I must give up the fight
There’s nothing more for me… lead me away
Or leave me lying here

Sound the bugle now… tell them I don’t care
There’s not a road I know that leads to anywhere
Without a light, I fear that I will stumble in the dark
Lay right down and decide not to go on

Then from on high, somewhere in the distance There’s a voice that calls,
“Remember who you are… if you lose yourself,
Your courage soon will follow,
So be strong tonight… remember who you are”

Yeah, your a soldier now,
Fighting in a battle,
To be free once more.
Yeah, that’s worth fighting for.

The only way to deal with an unfair world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion. –Albert Camus

2 responses to ““Sound the Bugle”

  1. Sound the Bugle, hear it’s call, follow regardless, knowing you’ll fall. … no time for thinking, it’s time to fight well, then time to be counted, at the Gates of Hell… Sorry John, didn’t mean to rhyme a rhyme as a comment… I’m feeling a bit gritty and angry…must be the heat.. xPenx

    • In reply to your beautiful note…

      “Lady P: Yes, Well…”

      Yes, well, after all, at least for you and me
      There’s everything and all and even more through truth and honesty;
      We grope at times, yes, but never quite make or break the call
      From perfection to perfection, gaining ground then risking all.
      But, there’s the rub! the same for everyone who breathes
      To live and not the other way around: as boiling lava seethes
      So, too, the will from time to time relieves itself
      , erupts and then must cool
      To build tomorrow’s fortress in the season’s rut. Know that fools
      And angels build as well on sand as on a known caldera
      Knowing safety’s but a syllable, a symbol, chimera
      Of the mind or possibly a maxim born of boredom
      And nothing more than light conversation over hay or sorghum
      With a denizen of Hell, itself, who’s merely waiting for a train,
      And you with no umbrella to protect you from the evening rain.

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