Under the wire where the dry earth cracks, We keep our counsel and cover our tracks. No flags in the wind, no names on the gate, Just a hole in the ground and a reason to wait. The dogs have their teeth and the pigs have their say, The sheep count the hours they’ve given away. But down in the dust where the old roots run, We curl round the dark till the shouting is done. Echidnas, heads in the sand, Spines to the world and dirt in our hands. They can promise the moon, they can purchase the sky, But they can’t make us stand when we’d rather lie low. There’s a man on the screen with a permanent grin, Selling tomorrow to the people within. He says, “Everyone wins if you stay in your place,” While somebody else puts a price on your face. So we scratch at the earth with mechanical claws, Too small for their armies, too strange for their laws. No kingdom to conquer, no ladder to climb, Just enough of a heartbeat to outlast the time. And the towers grow taller, the windows grow black, They count what they own but they never look back. Every mouth has a slogan, each hand has a chain, And the rain tastes of metal when it finally rains. Echidnas, under the stones, Making a country of tunnels and bones. Let the clever ones gamble, let the powerful fight— We’ll be here in the morning, still hiding from light. Maybe courage is nothing but knowing when not To fight for the prize that the winner has bought. Maybe freedom is smaller than banners suggest: A patch of dry earth and a place you can rest. And when all of their towers have fallen to rust, When the speeches and ledgers are buried in dust, Something awkward and ancient will nose through the clay, Blink once at the ruins, then wander away.
