The calm of the cup has died inside your veins,
And the smoke from the cigarette won't mean a thing.
Everyone's gone and you're falling asleep.
The salt on your pillow never tasted so sweet.
They say:
"Glory
To the God we believe.
He lives in a book
And from there He will look,
But He won't do a thing for our pain."
The mornings are blurry with tears in your eyes;
Dust turns to mud as flesh turns to flies.
You know the fathers who don't love their daughters,
And all of the mothers who gave up their sons.
The sunset looks bloody, just like everybody.
Their faces are one and the same.
You've seen the people who died with their steeples,
And whose bright Sunday candles remained.
They say:
"Holy
Is the God we can't see.
He lives in a book
And from there He will look,
But He won't do a thing for our pain.
We mothers and fathers
Must pillage and slaughter,
To live in this world we created."
So we say:
"Glory
To the God we believe.
He lives in a world
Where we all will be hurt,
And we never believe we can change.
Hope has been slaughtered
By our mothers and fathers,
But they're not the ones we should blame."
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Submission Name: [work in progress] ver. 2
