realise this current state of hate wont wait for the change from
another life. So lift your hands and understand this land though dry
just needs your tears and cries, when every back that is broken has
spoken, the angel awoken, bring kings of another time.
Backbeat the word is on the street, that the fires in our hearts are
out, but battered and bruised people never choose to shout out unless
their own lives feel the blues. Whose shoes do you wear when you
stare, with your diplomatic airs, cos I don't care for statements,
things won't ease with a press release. And the man on the street
can't eat the pretense.
Fence me in but don't begin to deny - that as time slips by you grow a
little tired of the same old issues, longer food queues the way you
live a poor and lonely life. An eye for an eye but what if the
enemy's blind and has no heart or mind, you gotta fight with your head
instead, forget your reddened past you left behind.
No matter what result the cult will quote the vote is soaked in years
of tears streaming out the eyes of a people trying to rise just to
realise they're dreaming of freedom if even the price is too high to
justify the next child that dies, next prison cell cries, the way to
stop or start the very motherland's heart, but you can be a part and
face the fear in your eyes . . . its time to rise.