They buried us in their murky cemetery
Of buds crushed and shells empty.
Blood on their caps, heads untouched by history.
Camouflaged cracks full of spit drowning the whole country
In fits of rage against their stagnant lake
They claim used to be great
If not for everything they hate
And everyone they blame.
So they round us up and drag us down,
Taking silence as licence to press our faces in the ground.
Anything to bring back the imagined pound
They want as the bygone jocks in town.
Fine. Hide that fragility.
Or find that humility
And join our upward journey to the same light they long to see,
To become the free they pretend to be.

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