O! In these times, this infant land, in our sour belly, the warriors of old and new are dying to the filthy refrain of war, war, war, war, war… Those that came before breathed toward a fresher world, a sea green life in a globe drearier than this, yet we have cultivated the flavor of battle without actually pulling the joyful trigger, distanced ourselves from the entry wound, taken leave of the truth behind a looming void, ate of it so that we've dulled the senses. We've lost the will to foretaste and now stand agape outside our pleading hope with no tools to dig our way to her, is this what we want of our love, suffocation? O! In these times, this infant land, in our sour belly, the warriors of old and new are dying to the filthy refrain of war, war, war, war, war... A stranger at the door, it is we, wringing our flesh of war… Might we tunnel forth to rescue her? Will the world lend us its many shovels? © 2007 mark prime
(The Weaver's Song)