you are washing your
hands with their bloods
gargling the souls of
this woman, children and men.
you are devil, evil incarnate
of that region
who mistake the flesh
of innocents like salted brown fishes,
dried under the sun.
you exalted your power
like the legion of death
treating defenseless and
poor people as grains of your armaments.
the cockroaches and earthworms of greed
ate your guts laid on the forlorn symphony
of your lust for money, for gold,
for silver, for iron, for copper,
for money, for money, for money,
for money you son-of-a-gun.
oh forsaken people,
bathe in lies and powdered of
violent resolutions,
basking on this man
who asked bullets,
arms, bullets, arms.
all for money, for money, for money,
for money you son-of-a-gun!
the lullaby is now dead,
blood wrapped your hands,
and you call this corporate rights,
you son-of-a-gun.
the bells of the churches
spilt red tears, sobbing, looking at
your hands, guiltless, soulless,
heartless, honorless, you-son-of-a-gun.
thrive oh, forsaken souls.
go to these monsters who trapped
your lives in a deathly symphony
of their armory.
rouse them, wake them, sing to them
your woes, pain and wounds.
heave to them your screams;
sing the hymn of justice to their eyes
until they'd gasp same, last painful sigh.
fill their cups of your blood,
remind them how they buried their guns
to your flesh and mind.
rouse them, wake them,
stay with them until they'd feel
if these blood poured
out from the veins of their wives, daughters and sons.
until they'd feel their cruelty
what an uncaring, bloodless arms,
oh heavens, like salted fish
dried under the sun
