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We Are love or death; this feeling gives me thought, nod to expression old and tired, where heaven and hell are merging. Bright under party lights last smile, brittle glass, laughing under crystal moons. Pass the time with grey, fear in print; outside, gunshots speak dread. Today we stand, tomorrow fall on someone else's sword. He lives. Smiles caught by cameras rotting underneath. Half a century for good work sixty years to forget under a million quick deaths. The heavier hand prints deeper impression for us; a foreign mantra stamps you. Your freedom is this: one more breath. Take the skin from your palms along with all else. Now your soul. In safe hands our bones are picked clean. Who are we really? Black glass eyes, a picture sliding past; we ride the subway to despair. A empty hall is not in fact; ghost and demons follow, speaking in the dark. All hail this our mighty country. |