Down on the naked flesh of the city,
Where the endless chain of neon stretches on,
In the eyeless ruins, cracked and rusty,
With fire in their mouths and sweat on their brows,
On march the armies of the forgot,
Silent is their onslaught, cold are their hearts,
And yet the dogs march amongst them,
Holding up banners painted in a meaningless tone,
Chanting the dead words of heartless mantras,
Grasping broken bones close to their chests,
They walk,
A skipped heartbeat and a tearful lie,
Music to them,
Feet crush the streets with lost conviction,
Like the wings of a swarm of locusts,
A white sun eclipsed by a bloodstained moon,
Engulfs the sky like glorious death,
While below, they walk,
"Children, where art thou mothers?
The whores of Babylon, the dogs of hell?
The eagles of yesteryear?"
Children, where art thou fathers?
Runaway soldiers, cowardly rats?
Downcast liars?"
No answer,
But still, their wounded souls cower,
At the mention of those who spawned them,
And the minds of the restless writhe in agony,
As the demons of the past beat them with iron,
Backs break,
Weights are cut,
And the pitiful nameless march on.
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