Текст песни Guardians of Their Own Truth (Beau) с переводом

A gypsy with a heart of gold

Has spent the winter sleeping cold,

Knowing the trinkets that he sold

Are lining out the pockets of the Guardians;

And patient, nailed upon his bed,

Abandoned, cold and left for dead

Is grateful even to be fed

A little from the hands of the

Guardians of their own truth;

Soldiers on their own roads;

Players on their own stages;

And Wonders of the World.

Before them all King Midas stood,

His sandals soaked in gold and blood,

Agreeing as indeed he should

His wealth should see the plates of the Guardians.

And all his wealth — the King’s delight —

Went disappearing in the night,

The day he lost the will to fight

And cast it in the palms of the

Guardians of their own truth;

Soldiers on their own roads;

Players on their own stages;

And Wonders of the World.

The tree is groaning even now,

Left spinning still and wondering how

The sap that climbs to every bough

Is salted for the sake of the Guardians.

But in the end when all is dry,

Not only how but also why

Is whispered with a gentle sigh,

The dust blanketing the eye of the

Guardians of their own truth;

Soldiers on their own roads;

Players on their own stages;

And Wonders of the World.

…Guardians of their own truth.

…Soldiers on their own roads.

…Players on their own stages.

…And Wonders of the World.

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