Bones of My Homeland

“Bones of My Homeland (By the Murdered Poets)” (Intro – whispered, then tearing scream) Their hands wrote truth in ink — Our hands write vengeance in blood. ⸻ (Verse 1 — blistering blast beat) Rivers of bodies, stacked under the frost, Villages gutted, a people near-lost. I drag the corpses of history behind me, Sinew and bone stitched into my memory. They tore out our tongues with pliers of steel, Laughing while asking how “Jewish hearts feel.” We learned to answer with knives in our fists — Every scream a ghost the empire missed. ⸻ (Pre-Chorus — choking growl) Burn the books, break the spine — A thousand throats STILL SPIT THE LINE. ⸻ (Chorus — full-throated scream, band chant) FROM THE BONES OF MY HOMELAND I RISE! You butchered the poets — but we’re still alive! Skulls crushed flat, but the memory survives — And in our roar, THE DEAD REVIVE! ⸻ (Verse 2 — violent, stomping riff) Ink mixed with blood, splattered onto the wall, Pages glued down with the brains of us all. Soviet butchers with executioner’s pride Shot truth in the face just to watch it die. But you can’t kill spirit with a bullet to the head — Every murdered poet births a thousand undead. Our verses crawl back from the grave like worms — Each stanza screams while the revolution burns. ⸻ (Bridge — slow, tormented, almost ritualistic) Drag my body through the gulag snow, Let the wolves make hymns from the flesh they know. Cut out my heart — it keeps beating still… Every throb a curse On the empire that kills. (Band whisper-chant, rising) Murdered Poets… Murdered Poets… MURDERED POETS… WILL NOT BE SILENCED. ⸻ (Breakdown — catastrophic drop) Pull the trigger — WE BLEED WORDS. Break our bones — THEY FORM VERBS. Burn our pages — THEY TURN TO SWORDS. Choke our throats — WE SCREAM IN HERDS. ⸻ (Final Chorus — all-out fury) FROM THE BONES OF MY HOMELAND I RISE! Skinned alive — still refusing to die! You ripped out our eyes, but we still see the lies — For every poet you murdered… TEN THOUSAND RISE. ⸻ (Outro — whispered over fading distortion) Ink survives. Memory survives. We survive. And through our mouths, The murdered speak.