And now we find ourselves engaged in civil war, choosing between redemption, and living with the poor. The frame is cracked, the glass is shattered, we've all been cast to sides. Each one will choose a weapon, a stance, the rule that he abides. The great enemy is dug in well, prepared now for hatred, prepared now for hell...
And the daughters bring forth tears to equal the mother's years. The unwanted son can no longer run. Father is bathed in sunlight, basking in the glow, laughing silently every second, enjoying all the show...
The landed gentry is benevolent, the gifts are always there. The peasants are distracted, they forget to miss the care. These occasions, these meetings, none by chance, and never advantage is taken, all day we're made to dance. Begging for the scraps, kissing the feet of the master, no power for ourselves, no dealing with disaster...
And how the stones do move at my command, how the fair are driven from the land. How shamefully I bestow the yoke, though told before I am the joke. Bearing witness, breaking fitness, unable to testify, breaking sweats but not for any august found here in July...
We pray not for your disappearance, but for your impossible change, some fantasized ability to let your comfort be rearranged. Your throne is built too sturdy, the foundation set in stone. So, why if you're still here do I still feel so alone?
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