Country.

If one night we're killed in our sleep, 

we'll know we had it coming:
the blood that's been spilled in our name 

will never stop running.

The conscience of a silent voice 

trembles in the light.
All this we take for granted 

is nothing but a blight.

Everything we've done 

has come at a cost.
Everything we've won 

has equalled life lost.

There are people out there now 

with families dead.
I hope our petty concerns 

will soon fall through our heads.

People who once were huddled in soot

now rise again;

can you hear the pillars crumbling

as our empires wane?

All this wealth will fall atop us

and crush us 

in extravagant death:

as our lungs struggle for air

the world takes a breath.

Someone out there shudders

'neath cold sunset air,

as they observe the silence

and smell the scents of

new fare:

our pursuits of endless pleasure

someday had to end:

through choice or realisation;

through death or dividend.

The blood,

it soaks into the sand;

into the palm

of desert hand,

as we reap what was begun

(but we know 

our day

will never come).