These words softly spoken into an empire's ear
These days are on fire
These days are on fire

In the last days of Rome
We live under a hanging cloud

And we come up short but these roads take us anywhere 
past

Words screamed from atop a precipice to a waiting 
populace
These days are on fire
These days are on fire

We live under a hanging cloud
Past the badlands past the blight there is a spot of good 
fortune
These days won't mean a thing past
(Grab the plowshares. Turn them to swords)

Past the badlands
Past the blight
Still breathing after the worst has left us

These days never meant a thing
And we come up short
But we come up with something
At least so far.