Flags again are sensed in empty gestures, tied to so many unimaginable transport, stabbed in America’s brittle lawns, impaled deep in the freshly wet green of wealth, staggered and airless in the crying fields, flapped against pickup truck and Humvee; nationalism etched in freshly waxed exterior to twisted frame of the fallen and dead ideals. Empire's lifting broken families into the air, aloft in the explosion of mourning without comprehending such rage. The dead, suspended in bomb's brown sky. Children are odes instead of laughter, funerals instead of schools, as fear invades their ambitious eyes draped in the fabric of war. Empire's lifting children up to casualty while its flags they must their flying! Hymns of righteousness must be sung, anthems exploded, void of comprehension. Flags fan the air where shrapnel pierces, penetrates the steel shell of lust, pitching compassion into the oily cloud racking torturous battles upon the world. There is no national an
(The Weaver's Song)