They told us when the smoke had cleared The morning would be bright, That every child would sleep in peace And every wrong be right. We built the towers, raised the flags, And carved the words in stone, Then turned away from hungry streets And called the kingdom home. But somewhere underneath the speeches, Underneath the marching feet, A little voice was asking: “Is this all we were promised? Is this what victory means?” The men behind the polished doors Are moving pieces round, While somewhere far beyond the glass A mother hears no sound. They speak of maps and markets, Of borders, wealth and pride, But every line they draw upon the page Has someone on the other side. And we applaud the clever ones, Because they sound so sure. While the dream we once believed in Is quietly becoming a war. And I was foolish enough to think That mercy had a name, That history could teach us Not to set the world aflame. I was foolish enough to stand When everybody bowed, Foolish enough to ask the question No one wanted out loud: Who owns the future? Who writes the truth? Who tells the children What became of their youth We inherited the promises, But not the promised land. We inherited the monuments And forgot what they had planned. Every generation says The darkness will be gone, Then wakes beneath another flag And carries the darkness on. Perhaps the fool was never he Who dared to dream aloud. Perhaps the fool was all of us Who learned to live without. So let the old bells ring again, Let the empty cities hear. Let every broken promise Rise above another year. We are not the kings of history. We are not the chosen few. We are only passing through this world What will we leave it to? And if tomorrow asks us Why we looked the other way, Don't tell it we were powerless. Don't tell it there was nothing we could say. We had the dream. We had the warning. We had the choice. And somewhere in the distance A child begins to sing. Not of war, Nor wealth, Nor glory Just of ordinary things. A window full of sunlight. A hand held through the rain. A world that hasn't learned yet To make the same mistakes again. [Final chord held] Maybe that's the fool's overture. Not the end of the dream but the courage to begin it again.
