Wailing winds carry forth the sound
Of Empires past burning down;
They’re buried deep beneath the ground,
Sharing tombs with skeletons dispersed
Throughout our history, but in this mall
Stories of buried
Empires before us fall
On deaf ears.
Silent, I wait in the park
On Inauguration Day.
Gray skies are falling;
Weeping for a fool’s parade.
The crowd bow their heads;
Red hats wear white anger,
Worshiping false-prophet’s rancor,
Controls relented to Wall Street bankers.
In the trees, I hear their whispers,
And in their seeds, a disparate mixture.
Hold for pity and for grace,
Hold for all in broken faith.
Wave to soldiers beyond the gates,
Ask them if they know that they’re dying.
Fanatics kneel as the whistle-blows,
Echoing the strangest prose.
See Spring rise from the streets below,
See the early sun, the yellow rose,
Toppling the golden towers,
Gather here at midnight hour
To usher in the turning flowers,
The wiser half will turn and run.
Why has no one told them that they’re dying?