This is what we get We know suffering like the back of our palms We know the smell of death better than our farms We know war in sick flesh We know it is in the agonizing screams of mothers and babes We know it is in the guns of soldiers that ever remain fresh Home is a divided populace of meaningless greed Home is pessimism Our fathers fill their bottomless cups with speed They keep pouring, cup after cup until their eyes form a prism This bizarre world do not motivate our mothers to chip in counsel Our families hang loose on the rope of half-light We are left to form roots lighter than parcel We remain buried in the dark, yet they call us children of light What are roots if they strangle you? Who are ancestors if all they do is worsen your narrative? Home at this point is a suspect Our beautiful eyes fear the world We shower them with tears to keep them from running away The fear in our hearts leave the future crooked And whenever we arrive we begin to mend it till we pass away...
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