Your Engine hums a hymn to progress, while the desert coughs its children into dust. The generals sip their contracts warm, signing treaties with othermans blood. They call it peace, but the silence reeks of gasoline. They call it freedom, but it’s bought up by the barrel. They call it progress, while the children dig their graves in sand. They call it faith, and pray to towers built of ash and oil. Every headline shines with borrowed light, “peace secured” beneath collapsing roofs. The flags still wave in televised glory, but the bodies are already gone. They call it peace, but the silence reeks of gasoline. They call it freedom, but it’s bought up by the barrel. They call it progress, while the children dig their graves in sand. They call it faith, and pray to towers built of ash and oil. Marching forward into flame, the smoke is only incense for the gods. Marching forward into ruin, and the prayers are written in stocks. They call it peace, but the silence reeks of gasoline. They call it freedom, but it’s bought up by the barrel. They call it progress, while the children dig their graves in sand. They call it faith, and pray to towers built of ash and oil. Tell me again how this was necessary. Tell me again how we all volunteered.
