Lyrics - Steppenwolf

A measure of any society can be had by ascertaining how it identifies and treats its renegades. Renegades not in the sense of  criminals, but rather in the sense of non-conformers. What it takes to earn that title, and what are the consequences of having earned it, speak much about the structure, origins and health of the society. Commonality must be stressed, as it is that which we all share that defines a nation or a culture. But resisting change, ostracizing any behaviour other than the mundane is to invite decay. This is the razor's edge that civilization must walk from rise to down fall.

In all this, as in all things with a sort of 'macro' perspective, what gets ignored is the individual. To be broadly stroked in to a 'type', to be a part of the 'masses' provides convenient pigeonholes in which personalities, dreams and hopes can be stuffed willy-nilly as per someone's opinion.

This song is for these renegades, the steppenwolves, who are what they are because they were born or brought up this way. For those who can't ,for no lack of trying, be a part of the pack.


Quivering shadows playing on a hidden lake
air heavy with early winter's taste
if you look closely through the trees you will see
a lonely wolf on the run

brown fur marks him a native of forests unknown
but these snows, he's claimed them and made them his own
by what blood, or love, or sadness does he make he make
so lonely a home

It's not a thing of cities
It's not a thing of men
It's not a thing of pity
It's how a wolf becomes
a Steppenwolf

He was a part of a pack but he never belonged
He was lonely, even when he he wasn't alone
He has tried, and tried, and tried but he
can't lose himself in the hunt

Little things of being a wolf he can't understand
when he loves, his love he cannot explain
he is awkward, or scary, or amused when it's
time to laugh or to mourn

It's not a thing of cities
It's not a thing of men
It's not a thing of pity
It's how a wolf becomes
a Steppenwolf

For some it's easy to pass into the unknown
wolf has taken, the snow to be his home
wilderness retreats the question is
where shall the wild men belong

The Age Descending

For all that is made real
In this age descending
Where heroes leave naught
But the iron ring of their names
From bardic throats
I stand in this silent heart
Yearning the fading beat
Of lives fallen to dust
And the sifting whisper
Proclaims glory’s passing
As the songs fail
In dwindling echoes
For all that is made real
The chambers and halls
Yawn empty to my cries –
For someone must
Give answer
Give answer
To all of this
Someone

- Steven Erikson (The Bonehunters)