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The Farmer Remembers The Somme

Will they never fade or pass!
The mud, and the misty figures endlessly coming
In file through the foul morass,
And the grey flood-water ripping the reeds and grass,
And the steel wings drumming.

The hills are bright in the sun:
There's nothing changed or marred in the well-known places;
When work for the day is done
There's talk, and quiet laughter, and gleams of fun
On the old folks' faces.

I have returned to these:
The farm, and the kindly Bush, and the young calves lowing;
But all that my mind sees
Is a quaking bog in a mist - stark, snapped trees,
And the dark Somme flowing.

by Vance Palmer

Battle of the Somme ended November 18, 1916
17th-Nov-2018 01:00 am - Wilfrid Gibson, 'Back'

They ask me where I've been,
And what I've done and seen.
But what can I reply
Who know it wasn't I,
But someone just like me,
Who went across the sea
And with my head and hands
Killed men in foreign lands...
Though I must bear the blame,
Because he bore my name.

by Wilfred Gibson
16th-Nov-2018 01:00 am - Siegfried Sassoon, 'They'

The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back
'They will not be the same; for they'll have fought
'In a just cause: they lead the last attack
'On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought
'New right to breed an honourable race,
'They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.'

'We're none of us the same!' the boys reply.
'For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind;
'Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die;
'And Bert's gone syphilitic: you'll not find
'A chap who's served that hasn't found some change.
' And the Bishop said: 'The ways of God are strange!'

by Siegfried Sassoon
15th-Nov-2018 01:00 am - Street Dogs, 'War After The War'
War After The War

What about the war after the war?
What about the war after the war?
I don't wanna sing about it anymore
But who cares for them all when they get home?
What about the war after the war?
What about the war after the war?
Does anybody even care anymore?
But who cares for them all when they get home?

Born in North Carolina, first born out of nine.
Played little league ball, boy scouts, loved rock and roll.
Played soldiers with the boys, spun bottles with the girls.
His world shook up on that September morn.

And what about the war after the war?
What about the war after the war?
I don't wanna sing about it anymore
But who cares for them all when they get home?
What about the war after the war?
What about the war after the war?
Does anybody even care anymore?
But who cares for them all when they get home?

He joined as a soldier to go out and save the world.
Had roadside bombs blow right up in his face.
Seeing dead ones and remains.
Getting shot at once again, for an injured women or child he couldn't help.
This is hell.
November 15th he gets home, feeling guilty desperate and alone.
His family they do not understand.
Angry drinking, sleeping on.
Wondering what the hell have we really won?
Why did I get to survive while others died?

So what about the war after the war?
What about the war after the war?
I don't wanna sing about it anymore
But who cares for them all when they get home?
What about the war after the war?
What about the war after the war?
Does anybody even care anymore?
But who cares for them all when they get home?

Coming home but it ain't home.
Coming home but it ain't home.
Coming home from the zone.
Coming home I feel alone.

By 'Street Dogs'

14th-Nov-2018 01:00 am - Robert Service, 'Victory Stuff'
Victory Stuff

What d'ye think, lad; what d'ye think,
As the roaring crowds go by?
As the banners flare and the brasses blare
And the great guns rend the sky?
As the women laugh like they'd all gone mad,
And the champagne glasses clink:
Oh, you're grippin' me hand so tightly, lad,
I'm a-wonderin': what d'ye think?

D'ye think o' the boys we used to know,
And how they'd have topped the fun?
Tom and Charlie, and Jack and Joe --
Gone now, every one.
How they'd have cheered as the joy-bells chime,
And they grabbed each girl for a kiss!
And now -- they're rottin' in Flanders slime,
And they gave their lives -- for this.

Or else d'ye think of the many a time
We wished we too was dead,
Up to our knees in the freezin' grime,
With the fires of hell overhead;
When the youth and the strength of us sapped away,
And we cursed in our rage and pain?
And yet -- we haven't a word to say. . . .
We're glad. We'd do it again.

I'm scared that they pity us. Come, old boy,
Let's leave them their flags and their fuss.
We'd surely be hatin' to spoil their joy
With the sight of such wrecks as us.
Let's slip away quietly, you and me,
And we'll talk of our chums out there:
You with your eyes that'll never see,
Me that's wheeled in a chair.

By Robert William Service
13th-Nov-2018 01:00 am - Warrior Soul, 'The Party'
The Party

Go with the flow
Ya just let it ride
We don`t care if ya live or die

We suck off the companies
We suck like a whore
If we need oil, we just suck some more

We define success
And we don`t sin
Got the nation in debt
About four trillion

Infrastructure is wasted
And we`re deaf to the crowd
Nothin` left for the children
It`s ok, we won`t be around

Welcome to the party
The republican party
Ya havin` fun at the party
The republican party
We`re havin` a party, right now

We stack the courts
And we tax the poor
Got Johnny Lunchbox
To fight our wars

Tax him to his knees
And make him love the flag
We get corporate freedom
He gets a body bag

We`re makin` a killin`
You know we kill so well
Cut the country to pieces
And we`re havin` a sale

We take it all
Just like ya knew we would
Hell we even got Nixon
Lookin` pretty good

Welcome to the party
The republican party
Ya havin` fun at the party
The republican party
We`re havin` a party, right now

By 'Warrior Soul'

The Truce And The Peace
(November, 1918)

Peace now for every fury has had her day,
Their natural make is moribund, they cease,
They carry the inward seeds of quick decay,
Build breakwaters for storm but build on peace.
The mountains' peace answers the peace of the stars,
Our petulances are cracked against their term.
God built our peace and plastered it with wars,
Those frescoes fade, flake off, peace remains firm.
In the beginning before light began
We lay or fluttered blind in burdened wombs,
And like that first so is the last of man,
When under death for husband the amorous tombs
Are covered and conceived; nine months go by
No midwife called, nine years no baby's cry.

Peace now, though purgatory fires were hot
They always had a heart something like ice
That coldly peered and wondered, suffering not
Nor pleased in any park, nor paradise
Of slightly swelling breasts and beautiful arms
And throat engorged with very carnal blood.
It coldly peered and wondered, 'Strong God your charms
Are glorious, I remember solitude.
Before youth towered we knew a time of truth
To have eyes was nearly rapture.' Peace now, for war
Will find the cave that childhood found and youth.
Ten million lives are stolen and not one star
Dulled; wars die out, life will die out, death cease,
Beauty lives always and the beauty of peace.

Peace to the world in time or in a year,
In the inner world I have touched the instant peace.
Man's soul's a flawless crystal coldly clear,
A cold white mansion that he yields in lease
To tenant dreams and tyrants from the brain
And riotous burnings of the lovelier flesh.
We pour strange wines and purples all in vain.
The crystal remains pure, the mansion fresh.
All the Asian bacchanals and those from Thrace
Lived there and left no wine-mark on the walls.
What were they doing in that more sacred place
All the Asian and the Thracian bacchanals?
Peace to the world to-morrow or in a year,
Peace in that mansion white, that crystal clear.

Peace now poor earth. They fought for freedom's sake,
She was starving in a corner while they fought.
They knew not whom they stabbed by Onega Lake,
Whom lashed from Archangel, whom loved, whom sought.
How can she die, she is the blood unborn,
The energy in earth's arteries beating red,
The world will flame with her in some great morn,
The whole great world flame with her, and we be dead.
Here in the west it grows by dim degrees,
In the east flashed and will flame terror and light.
Peace now poor earth, peace to that holier peace
Deep in the soul held secret from all sight.
That crystal, the pure home, the holier peace,
Fires flaw not, scars the crudest cannot crease.

South of the Big Sur River up the hill
Three graves are marked thick weeds and grasses heap,
Under the forest there I have stood still
Hours, thinking it the sweetest place to sleep , . .
Strewing all-sufficient death with compliments
Sincere and unrequired, coveting peace . . .
Boards at the head not stones, the text's rude paints
Mossed, rain-rubbed . . . wasting hours of scanty lease
To admire their peace made perfect. From that height
But for the trees the whole valley might be seen,
But for the heavy dirt, the eye-pits no light
Enters, the heavy dirt, the grass growing green
Over the dirt, the molelike secretness,
The immense withdrawal, the dirt, the quiet, the peace.

Women cried that morning, bells rocked with mirth,Collapse )

By Robinson Jeffers
12th-Nov-2018 01:00 am - Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, 'Bacchanal'

Into the twilight of Trafalgar Square
They pour from every quarter, banging drums
And tootling penny trumpets: to a blare
Of tin mouth-organs, while a sailor strums
A solitary banjo, lads and girls,
Locked in embraces, in a wild dishevel
Of flags and streaming hair, with curdling skirls
Surge in a frenzied, reeling, panic revel.

Lads who so long have looked death in the face,
Girls who so long have tended death's machines,
Released from the long terror shriek and prance:
And watching them, I see the outrageous dance,
The frantic torches and the tambourines
Tumultuous on the midnight hills of Thrace.

By Wilfrid Wilson Gibson
November 1918
Paris, November 11, 1918

Down on the boulevards the crowds went by,
The shouting and the singing died away,
And in the quiet we rose to drink the toasts,
Our hearts uplifted to the hour, the Day:
The King – the Army – Navy – the Allies –
England – and Victory.

And then you turned to me and with low voice
(The tables were abuzz with revelry),
‘I have a toast for you and me,’ you said,
And whispered ‘Absent,’ and we drank
Our unforgotten Dead.
But I saw Love go lonely down the years
And when I drank, the wine was salt with tears.

By May Wedderborn Cannan

From Grey Ghosts and Voices:
…And then across the table G. lifted her glass to me and said “Absent”. I did not know her story nor she mine, but I drank to my friends who were dead and to my friends who, wounded, imprisoned, battered, shaken, exhausted, were alive in a new, and a terrible world.
11th-Nov-2018 12:11 pm - Siegfried Sassoon, 'Everyone Sang'
Everyone Sang

Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark-green fields; on–on–and out of sight.

Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted;
And beauty came like the setting sun:
My heart was shaken with tears; and horror
Drifted away . . . O, but Everyone
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.

By Siegfried Sassoon
"And There Was A Great Calm"
(On the signing of the Armistice, Nov. 11, 1918)

There had been years of Passion—scorching, cold,
And much Despair, and Anger heaving high,
Care whitely watching, Sorrows manifold,
Among the young, among the weak and old,
And the pensive Spirit of Pity whispered, “Why?”

Men had not paused to answer. Foes distraught
Pierced the thinned peoples in a brute-like blindness,
Philosophies that sages long had taught,
And Selflessness, were as an unknown thought,
And “Hell!” and “Shell!” were yapped at Lovingkindness.

The feeble folk at home had grown full-used
To “dug-outs,” “snipers,” “Huns,” from the war-adept
In the mornings heard, and at evetides perused;
To day-dreamt men in millions, when they mused—
To nightmare-men in millions when they slept.

Waking to wish existence timeless, null,
Sirius they watched above where armies fell;
He seemed to check his flapping when, in the lull
Of night a boom came thencewise, like the dull
Plunge of a stone dropped into some deep well.

So, when old hopes that earth was bettering slowly
Were dead and damned, there sounded “War is done!”
One morrow. Said the bereft, and meek, and lowly,
“Will men some day be given to grace? yea, wholly,
And in good sooth, as our dreams used to run?”

Breathless they paused. Out there men raised their glance
To where had stood those poplars lank and lopped,
As they had raised it through the four years' dance
Of Death in the now familiar flats of France;
And murmured, “Strange, this! How? All firing stopped?”

Aye; all was hushed. The about-to-fire fired not,
The aimed-at moved away in trance-lipped song.
One checkless regiment slung a clinching shot
And turned. The Spirit of Irony smirked out, “What?
Spoil peradventures woven of Rage and Wrong?”

Thenceforth no flying fires inflamed the gray,
No hurtlings shook the dewdrop from the thorn,
No moan perplexed the mute bird on the spray;
Worn horses mused: “We are not whipped to-day”;
No weft-winged engines blurred the moon's thin horn.

Calm fell. From Heaven distilled a clemency;
There was peace on earth, and silence in the sky;
Some could, some could not, shake off misery:
The Sinister Spirit sneered: “It had to be!”
And again the Spirit of Pity whispered, “Why?”

by Thomas Hardy
The Armistice
In an Office, in Paris

The news came through over the telephone:
All the terms had been signed: the War was won:
And all the fighting and the agony,
And all the labour of the years were done.
One girl clicked sudden at her typewriter
And whispered, "Jerry’s safe", and sat and stared:
One said, "It’s over, over, it’s the end:
The War is over: ended": and a third,
"I can’t remember life without the war."
And one came in and said, "Look here, they say
We can all go at five to celebrate.
As long as two stay on, just for today."

It was quite quiet in the big empty room
Among the typewriters and little piles
Of index cards: one said, "We’d better just
Finish the day’s reports and do the files."
And said, “It’s awf’lly like Recessional,
Now when the tumult has all died away."
The other said, "Thank God we saw it through;
I wonder what they’ll do at home today."

And said, "You know it will be quiet tonight
Up at the Front: first time in all these years.
And no one will be killed there any more,"
And stopped, to hide her tears.
She said, "I’ve told you; he was killed in June."
“The other said, "My dear, I know; I know …
It’s over for me too … My man was killed,
Wounded … and died … at Ypres … three years ago …
And he’s my Man, and I want him," she said,
And knew that peace could not give back her Dead.

By May Wedderborn Cannan

Armistice of 11 November 1918 ended hostilities in the First World War.
The Night the World Ended

We’re under a vast illusion.
Somewhere along the line we
came under this impression and
somehow we think that
we’ll always have it all together.
Always have all of our
strings wrapped
perfectly around one finger.

That the earth will always
spin the right way.
That the weight of the
metaphorical world won’t tip our
planet’s axis .2 centimeters to the right,
uprooting the ground from
underneath of all of us
suddenly and all at once
the balances shift,
A German word.
It means, simply,
Crystal night.
The night of broken glass.
The night of broken people and
shards of lives.
The night everything fell
apart, suddenly and
all at once
the scales re-arranged themselves,
Mid-way into a thousand year
reign of 12 years.
The end of the beginning and the
beginning of the end.
The definition of destruction and the
physical representation of a
bubbling and spontaneous

You see, we’re under a vast illusion.
We think that the world will
always look this way,
That we’ll always be
young forever.

You see, she used to run through
meadows, picking
wildflowers and daisies,
blowing dandelions and making
carefree wishes.
Running barefoot,
arms splayed out,
heart all akimbo through
fields of forget-me-nots,
singing about how he loves her,
loves her not.
Not a care in the world.
Then the riots started and
she couldn’t explain why
the meadow she used to
run in was suddenly full of
stones with names tattooed on the
front with a date.

Overnight, the balances
shifted and that 6 year old
girl seemed to age 10 years.

She saw it all.
Beautiful faces, beautiful minds.
She saw the world fall apart like
fluttering hearts and
butterfly wings at midnight.
People coming back together
in a huddle of broken
promises and forgotten hallelujahs.
A 1000 year reign cut short.
She saw the end of the
world as she knew it.
Saw the careless hatred
decimate her carefree meadow
of daisies.

She began to sing a new song.
Picked a handful of
forget-me-nots and
chose to love
like she did
before the night the world ended.

By Baylie Allison
9th-Nov-2018 01:00 am - Ken Allen, 'Kristallnacht'

[Author's Note: On the night of November 9, 1938, the Nazis unleashed a wave of orchestrated attacks against Jews in Germany and Austria. In the space of a few hours, thousands of synagogues and Jewish businesses and homes were damaged or destroyed. Nearly 100 Jews were beaten to death and 30,000 arrested and sent to concentration camps. This dark event came to be called Kristallnacht - the "Night of Broken Glass."]

From adolescent dreams I wake,
No hope for blessed sleep remains—
Embracing silence in the dark,
I search for light past shuttered panes.

But no, my window is secure
Against this chilly autumn night;
I now recall when Mutter came
To stroke my brow and lock it tight.

Where is the drone of Vater's voice
Recounting speeches word for word?
Instead, my mutter's gentle sobs
Intone her sorrows yet incurred.

I risk a peek despite her plea
To stay in bed once I retire;
Two chairs sit empty, poised between
The radio and raging fire.

But as I ponder this, it comes—
A vengeful thunder in the street;
A pounding like ten thousand drums
On cobblestones by marching feet.

I seek the solace of my bed
And pull the bedclothes o'er my eyes,
But angry shouting fills my head
Amid foul shrieks and pleading cries.

The crash of glass is all around—
From where it comes, I cannot tell;
A wail of sirens soon surround
And join a chorus born of hell.

No longer can I listen blind;
I must know what unfolds outside!
With trepidation, I unwind
The tepid sheets in which I hide.

As I undo the shutter's latch,
A raging glow seeps through the chinks;
I open wide perdition's hatch
And look beyond...

...My spirit sinks.

Outside, the world erupts in rage
As zealous men and boys my age
Pursue their vengeance to and fro—
A few are strangers. Most I know.

I hear them crunching down the street
On crystal carpets at their feet;
Their hate continues to amass
The shattered lives among the glass.

As men are dragged into the night,
Their screams invoke perverse delight;
Not one is spared or dares resist
The blows from rods or doubled fist.

A few who watch the cruel reprise
Betray compassion in their eyes,
But fearing those who may deride,
They pass by on the other side.

I watch the swath of carnage spread
Beyond the living to the dead
As graves found worthy of disdain
Are stripped of peace in death's domain.

Behind, a raging chaos churns—
A foreign house of worship burns
Adorned with scrolls unfurled in haste
Of old commandments once embraced.

The flames ascend as minutes pass,
Their glow igniting shards of glass—
This morbid beauty pleased my eye
Like stars unnumbered in the sky.

Then just outside my vision's reach,
A Voice of Reason starts to preach
And quotes a treatise, cold and stark,
Espousing doctrines in the dark.

His words go spinning through my head,
My conscience balks with icy dread...
Which voice will earn my trust again—
My childlike faith or tongues of men?

No longer can I bear the sight
Of fates unfolding in the night;
I flee the room in which I sleep,
Collapse in pain...

...And then I weep.

As daylight stirs my weary mind,
I hear the rattle of the door;
It is my Vater, out all night,
Who treads the shadows on the floor.

He sighs and sinks into his chair
As if enduring tortured loss;
He pulls an armband from his coat
Emblazoned with a twisted cross.

A floorboard creaks, he spins around
And spots me in the light of day;
He trembles at my anxious gaze,
Then drops his eyes...

...And looks away.

By Ken Allen

Kristallnacht (The Night of Broken Glass) Nov. 9-10, 1938
8th-Nov-2018 01:00 am - David Rovics, 'No One Is Illegal'
No One Is Illegal

Clouds gather in your forests,
drift to my desert town.
And I think of far-off places
as the rain is coming down.
You're bent down in the fields,
picking fruit there from the vines
and it ends up on my table
as it moves on down the line.

Moon shines brightly in the night sky.
River flows from South to North.
With the changing of the seasons,
the birds migrate back and forth.
They say that you can't come here,
not in the light of day.
Somebody has got plans for you,
starve at home or hide away.

Will we,
Open up the borders?
Tear down the prison walls?
Declare that no one is illegal!
Watch the giant as it falls.

So much travels across these borders,
so much is bought and sold.
One way go the gunships,
the other comes the gold.
Free trade is like a needle,
drawing blood straight from your heart.
The borders like a prison,
keeping friends apart.

Will we,
Open up the borders?
Tear down the prison walls?
Declare that no one is illegal!
Watch the giant as it falls.

You hear the stockholders cheering,
as the world is getting smaller.
Hear the drowning child crying:
Why are the fences growing taller?
Some whisper in the shadows,
while others count the dollars.
Some have suits and ties,
others chains and collars.

Will we,
Open up the borders?
Tear down the prison walls?
Declare that no one is illegal!
Watch the giant as it falls.

May the fortress walls come down,
may we meet our sisters and our brothers,
stand arm in arm there in the daylight,
no longer fighting one another.
Will we stand together,
for therein lies our might?
Will we understand these words,
Workers of the World, Unite!

Will we,
Open up the borders?
Tear down the prison walls?
Declare that no one is illegal!
No one is illegal!
No one is illegal!

By David Rovics

8th-Nov-2018 01:00 am - Robert Service, 'The Aftermath'
The Aftermath

Although my blood I've shed
In war's red wrath,
Oh how I darkly dread
Its aftermath!
Oh how I fear the day
Of my release,
When I must face the fray
Of phoney peace!

When I must fend again
In labour strife;
And toil with sweat and strain
For kids and wife.
The world is so upset
I battled for,
That grimly I regret
The peace of war.

The wounds are hard to heal
Of shell and shard,
But O the way to weal
Is bitter hard!
Though looking back I see
A gory path,
How bloody black can be
War's Aftermath!

By Robert Service
7th-Nov-2018 02:00 am - Brian Cowan, 'Soldiers' Ground'
Soldiers’ Ground

This piece of earth so green and lush is hallowed ground to me.
Though you may see abundant life, that isn’t what I see.
I see politicians’ lies and Generals’ poor command,
And loss and tears and sacrifice, that sanctified this land.

Though trivial geography to those whose feet it bore,
Its brave defenders challenged us for who would want it more.
Tooth for tooth, eye for eye and crimson blood for blood,
Every anguished inch we bought, exchanging flesh for mud.

And when the battle ended and our prize was made secure,
When we beheld what cost us dear, our victory seemed unsure.
Smoking, scorched and barren earth, devoid of any life,
Scarlet-cloaked with broken men, the residues of strife

Now grass thrives on the sweat of those who cursed and fought and bled,
Flowers root in sanguine soil, perfume decaying dead.
Your white and towering monuments that glisten in the sun,
Remind me of the bones they hide. For you, the job is done.

You stand and make pronouncement at the valour that was shown,
You call this land a symbol and you claim it as your own,
But political diplomacy and Generals’ great reward,
Were purchased with the struggle of those men who took the sword.

You dare to stand among us now, pretending at our loss,
To know the true and deeper meaning of a soldier’s cross.
This ground is ours, both friend and foe. We bought it with our all.
While you stood last and cheered us on, ignoring duty’s call.

Be gone from here, pretenders, for you do not have the right,
To share with those who sacrificed. Those who fought the fight
Your gains are built on their remains. Your glory we hold cheap.
Your presence here an insult to all those who sleep the sleep.

Your posing and your flowery speeches, eloquently trite
Charades of ceremony are but mockery in our sight,
The victor and the vanquished bled to hold this land so dear,
Be gone, for this is soldiers’ ground. You have no business here.

By Brian Cowan
Songs from an Evil Wood


There is no wrath in the stars,
They do not rage in the sky;
I look from the evil wood
And find myself wondering why.

Why do they not scream out
And grapple star against star,
Seeking for blood in the wood,
As all things round me are?

They do not glare like the sky
Or flash like the deeps of the wood;
But they shine softly on
In their sacred solitude.

To their happy haunts
Silence from us has flown,
She whom we loved of old
And know it now she is gone.

When will she come again
Though for one second only?
She whom we loved is gone
And the whole world is lonely.

And the elder giants come
Sometimes, tramping from far,
Through the weird and flickering light
Made by an earthly star.

And the giant with his club,
And the dwarf with rage in his breath,
And the elder giants from far,
They are the children of Death.

They are all abroad to-night
And are breaking the hills with their brood,
And the birds are all asleep,
Even in Plugstreet Wood.


Somewhere lost in the haze
The sun goes down in the cold,
And birds in this evil wood
Chirrup home as of old;

Chirrup, stir and are still,
On the high twigs frozen and thin.
There is no more noise of them now,
And the long night sets in.

Of all the wonderful things
That I have seen in the wood,
I marvel most at the birds,
At their chirp and their quietude.

For a giant smites with his club
All day the tops of the hill,
Sometimes he rests at night,
Oftener he beats them still.

And a dwarf with a grim black mane
Raps with repeated rage
All night in the valley below
On the wooden walls of his cage.


I met with Death in his country,
With his scythe and his hollow eye
Walking the roads of Belgium.
I looked and he passed me by.

Since he passed me by in Plug Street,
In the wood of the evil name,
I shall not now lie with the heroes,
I shall not share their fame;

I shall never be as they are,
A name in the land of the Free,
Since I looked on Death in Flanders
And he did not look at me.

by Lord Dunsany

Ploegsteert Wood was a sector of the Western Front in Flanders in World War I
6th-Nov-2018 03:00 am - Rise Against, 'The First Drop'
The First Drop

I'm calling out
Only echoes respond
But I scream 'til my voice is gone
Crouching in corners and hiding your face
I'm sick and tired of playing your games

I'm not alone
I stand among the voiceless
Millions in the unforgiving sun

Here arm-in-arm
We parade these streets
And sing our songs (and sing our songs)

We've had enough
Is there even anything left to explain? (We've had enough)
Am I really someone you need to restrain? (We've had enough)
Can't you listen to what we have to say? (We've had enough)

Unknowing, we lie and wait for the rain
To wash away what they have made
Face down in the dirt with your foot on my back
In the distance I hear thunder crack

C'mon, stand up !
This system of power and privilege is about to come to an end
Here come the clouds
The first drop is falling down (falling down)

We've had enough
Is there even anything left to explain? (We've had enough)
Am I really someone you need to restrain? (We've had enough)
Can't you listen to what we have to say? (We've had enough)

Our futures burn in red horizons
Ashes scattered in winds of change
Casualty numbers are rising
Now it's time to raise the stakes

We're meant for something more than living just to put food on our plates
I can't help but wonder--why should we participate?

We've had enough
Is there even anything left to explain? (We've had enough)
Am I really someone you need to restrain? (We've had enough)
Can't you listen to what we have to say? (We've had enough)

By 'Rise Against'

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