A cloud of dust at the horizon
to cut down on a wasteland
the place to find their prize in
deep below the scorched sand

Foreseeing the coming doom
Dreadwheels they have to race
The prize for lost - to get entombed
The winners knowledge embrace

Now embers shoot
into the sky
the darings' route
The earth's bone dry
We must ride fast
Or we will fall
into the past
once and for all

As we reach the summit
of another bone dry hill
Our head pulsate with drumming
The stone talks, yet is still.

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