Ah, fire,
does rush, flush grey these verdant leaves,
flood this valley white.
And those outside would shy and lie,
dream of softer skies.
Yet thousand miles break our shores,
and empty hearts seek not our stars,
but story ours, which they shall hear.
Our sailing tale finds richer wind,
comes to port in darker white.
And those outside do hear our plight,
our shattered tale,
and we are sold
'side olive bread
and sable ham.
For neath their whiter sky, the people live with bellies full,
with heated homes and sleepy haze
kennelled, settled, hearthed and lazed.
And the people hear our song,
through supple gossip, juicy topics,
And the people think they see.
Blinded eyes now see the gleam of shadows' teeth,
feel the sharpness held by blunted, needled teeth.
They taste their light of tamer death
and feel our heat of burning leaf
smell our seething ravaged fields
hear our bitter broken cries
and think they weep our blackened tears.
And so the people sing
and so our tale is shared,
but it is true - their song is theirs, and fares to act alone for home.
And so they grow their winter cold,
and so they let their fires starve,
but selfish morals eat their empty hearts
and love for words cares not for names. Altruism is fuelled by popularity.
So they send a silver dove
and they send a hundred pleas,
and they bid us home and passage,
and they say that our land is broken, gone.
But we are strong; we stay our tears,
we hold our homes
and give them not our fear.
Broken, burnt, starving, staying,
for though their people sing, they sing for home alone,
they sing for gods to save our spring.
But yet our seasons pass,
and their dark grows long,
and our tale sets sail,
and their skies forget.
And their people warm their hearts
by their warmer hearths
and so they cut glazed hart,
and forget our words.
Because their words had no heart,
their pleas
their bargains
their gifts.
And though the fire rages on,
and though our crops are burned to black,
the flames did leave us long ago.
And we do know that soon,
the rains will come
the tide will rush
the smoke will clear.
Our tears will soothe this hissing grave,
and that is why we do remain.
For darkened land, fertile with the dead, carries new green,
and we seed our fields for spring.
drink a mangonada