after 20 years of pouring gasoline into the soil, it's time to collect the harvest
We've lost our families to imaginary lines Our children grew up in what we said were the end of times With our damaged homes With our fear of the rising seas With our endless lists of bacteria, viruses, disease With our blinding mistrust and our endless distinctions of men With our parsing of the world into us and them With all of our gods and all of our sins We've buried them before they could begin (They never had a chance Their gas soaked seed was fated for the match).