Thursday, 1 July 2010


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).

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