Burning Burning Burning Pain
Blisters in my flesh
As smoke fills my chest
They are burning the weeds again.
Many, many errors
Not enough rightness
Who are the winners
Of this madness
I hear a baby's cry from under the rubble.
Then
it stops,
And I don't know which is worse,
If the wails of the children
Or the silence of the noble.
The children are crying,
the children are dead.
And everyone's fighting
Each other instead.
