I am a son of plenty who was raised against this land, (For fathers of my mothers had been wasted by its hand) Betraying here the warnings of his blood To fly a flag of flaglessness, for if each flag was stained With all the blood the helpless masses Shed beneath its name, we’d all salute the colors of the mud So speak not of your righteousness for though you may be true The tree of evil might just have its seed inside of you Waiting for the proper time to bloom & we the chosen children of this martyrdom must learn That martyrs turn to murderers when tables have been turned & history repeats its bloody tune But though they say that history repeats what isn’t learned I feel that there is fallacy within these simple terms For history is more than just one stream It is the very ocean into which our rivers flow, A myriad of motions going round us to & fro, & we are both its dreamers & the dream So put a song of memory upon your broken tongue And realize the melodies of bells already rung Are in the very bells we may now hear So let the broken words be learned, let the song be sung Let the painted birds return, let the bells be rung Though not a note is new unto our ears