The People's Faith
Perhaps memories don’t define a person
Maybe our authenticity lies in pain
We go from carving hearts to gutting out land
In the fire of man, no shadows are made
Under the moonlight, we sit on gold, wondering: who stays up during the nights of October?
The stars, you would say
But they’re getting closer, aren’t they?
The light in the sky, indeed, gets closer, attempting to mesmerize
Yet the whistle speaks for itself
And heat is raining down to melt our hands, and her lover, and the farmer’s trees
Not the man in the suit
Not the old men who sleep in their clean blankets
Revealing the awaiting rubble at dawn
Yes, maybe blood is cheaper than oil
So while our roots rot into the soil, people will have nowhere to live but in the dirt of their land
Even if it means the flowers drink their blood
But our leaders are deaf, and justice is being left blind
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