The morning breeze is off and gone
the winding factory streets are clean
old ladies put the kettle on
and all-night lechers pause and lean
on grey shop windows, everywhere
a deeper hum is in the air
hotel room, drifter leaves no clues
He rides a freight-train out of town
and whistles at the icy rime
the cattle float like thistle-downs
and god is on the edge of time
somewhere behind a siren wails
the freight-train soars above the rails
the traveller, he's hard as nails
as the train sweeps down the line
The salmon season's here to stay
and etched into each shoulder-bone
the mark of cain is on display
as stone above each measured stone
old dresden burns above the breeze
the traveller, he's on his knees
he's watching sledge-wings dip and play
so far above the holy throne
Dresden blues . . .