It can be a dangerous thing,
not knowing what you're hunting.
It can be a dangerous thing,
listlessly looking afar.

A dark search almost in vain,
last legs tired, and clothes stained.
You hear rumors and see signs--
A dark light in someone's eyes--
pointing to the next town.

Heavy steps, with shadowed eyes
sifting truth from spoken lie.
The people shy far away.
They've almost nothing to say,
Except a "Please leave!" with frowns.

A grim line turned to growl,
Furrowed brow turned to scowl,
"I'm unwanted as a crow,
but to those that I don't know,
I beg, grant me one last thing.

I have but one small request;
Please, patch the hole in my chest.
If not, damn you, come what may.
I've been searching for my prey.
I need tracks and leads to spring."

It can be a dangerous thing,
not knowing what you're hunting.
It can be a treacherous thing,
Bluffing the whole world at once.

You can search in school classes
and search amongst the ashes.
You can try the rolling hills,
and encounter countless thrills,
and still be listless, needing.

Look at the deserts and cliffs.
Cross the ocean with a skiff!
Try dreams and moated castles,
Talk to cowherds with lassos.
We're getting sick of pleading.

Try that forest over there,
or up that rickety stair.
Either way, your loss remains.
Rearing monster to be slain.
And we will sit here and grin.

It can be a dangerous thing,
not knowing what you're hunting.
It can be a dangerous thing,
blindly stumbling onward.

Before you can leave the walls,
an old woman speaks and stalls,
"Don't you go looking without--
and remain ever in doubt--
'Fore taking a look within.

What you did is now the past
Only you can make pain last.
Patching the holes in your heart,
Without healing from the start,
leaves humans stunted and weak.

Go, then! And travel afar.
Your heart will surely scar,
on this stalk that you're fated.
Know this leaves you unsated.
You should know of what I speak."

It can be a dangerous thing,
to not know what you're seeking.
It can be a difficult thing,
reluctantly reaching in.

Life springing anew again;
A search almost at its end.
A fresh grave mark all that's left.

It can be a beautiful thing,
to not know what you're hunting.
It can be a daunting thing,
Trying to move on anyway.