Cities of old.
Cities of gold.
Dining on ashes the truth will unfold.
Crumbling towers meant for the sky.
Lovely sweet children lined up to die.
Circling madness and impending doom.
A bride stares with sadness at her dying groom.
We weren’t careful and we knew the cost.
Cities of gold whose fortunes were lost.

It wasn’t the silver.
It wasn’t the gold.
It was the souls of stories untold.

It wasn’t the reaper.
It wasn’t his sickle.
It wasn’t bad luck.
Though luck is so fickle.
It wasn’t the word.
It wasn’t the sword.
It was a nation’s final reward.

I stumbled through wreckage and countless dead.
I cried like a child who won’t go to bed.
I tasted these tears through broken young eyes.
I tasted the words of a madman who lies.

Let this be a lesson and let it bring change.
A nation’s worst peril will never seem strange.
It’s written in seasons for all that will see.
This isn’t a nation for the land of the free.

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