Down beneath the swoosh of the turbines,
The long grass it blows in ripples,
There's a beautiful spiral of roads,
That leads the lost up here.
I was watching the birds taking off,
To swoop down over the city,
They find and take just what they need,
And turn, turn, turn.

The movers move, the shakers shake,
The winners write their history,
But from high on the high hills
It all looks like nothing.
The movers move, the shakers shake,
The winners write their history,
But from high on the high hills
It all looks like nothing.

That afternoon on the hustler gate,
With all the TVs flickering,
While behind the sky was moving,
Liquid crimson gold.
Brothers, sisters, pay no heed
To the unfaithful messengers,
For theirs is a prison world,
Of lies, lies, lies.

Where the movers move, the shakers shake,
The winners rewrite history,
But from high on the high hills
It all looks like nothing.
The movers move, the shakers shake,
The winners write their history,
But from high on the high hills
It all looks like nothing.

The keening wind,
It blows though me, it blows through me.
My time it must,
Be almost done, be almost done.

All these things you fear so much
Depend on angles of vision.
Down in the maze of walls,
You can't see what's coming,
But from high on the high hills
It all looks like nothing,
From high on the high hills
It all looks like nothing, nothing

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