Do you hear the children crying in the dark, my friends? Before the weight of years can even start? Small heads on tired shoulders, leaning in again, But no one's arms can dry those broken hearts. Lambs run free in fields where the wild winds play, Birds call out from branches, chasing light of day, Fawns chase shadows laughing through the green. But these little ones are weeping, lost in between. Oh, they're crying, crying in the country of the free, While the rest of us keep turning, keep pretending we can't see. In the land we call our home, in the glow of neon skies, (Hear the children cry) Hear the children cry. Do you ever stop and ask them why the tears keep falling down? Why their eyes are old before their time? Old men mourn the years that slipped away somehow, Old trees stand bare when winter claims its prime. But these are children, barely learned to run. Standing at the factory gates before the morning sun. Pale faces in the shadows, hands that never play, Dreaming of a meadow just to lie down and fade away. Oh, they're crying, crying in the country of the free, While the rest of us keep turning, keep pretending we can't see. In the land we call our home, in the glow of neon skies, (Hear the children cry) Hear the children cry… "For oh," they whisper through the dust and grinding steel, "We're weary to the bone, we can't run or leap or feel. If we ever loved a playground, it was only for the sleep, To close our eyes forever in the silence, dark and deep." They drag the heavy chains through endless night-shift hours, No gold can buy their laughter, no prayer can bring the flowers. They look up with those hollow eyes and softly beg for rest. "It's better when it happens," they say, "before we're old and blessed." Now gold runs in our pockets, but the children's blood runs cold, We built our shining cities on the graves of six year olds. The wheels keep turning, profits rise, the sirens never cease. But every quiet sob they give is cursing us in peace. A child's tears in the stillness cut deeper than a roar, Deeper than the anger of the strongest man at war. Oh, they're crying, crying in the country of the free, While the world keeps spinning blind, won't somebody hear their plea? In the land we swear is golden, under artificial light, Hear the children cry, hear the children cry. (Do you hear them?) (Do you hear them crying?) Do you hear the children… Crying… In the dark… My friends?
