Freedom Writer

You talk of ages past when there were heroes,

Men of strength and valor, great fighting men.

Well, their memories have gone and left peace in its place

And we see no need to bring them back a-gain.

There’s a younger market you must keep in mind;

There’s dreams of high society that fill their simple heads.

They don’t want to hear about that sad reality;

They’d rather live the social life, they said.

I took my pen and my guitar and left the room.

I met the hungered thousands at the door,

Aimlessly searching for the answer to their thought:

“Is nothing sacred anymore?”

Memories of ages past sit dusting in an empty shop.

Wasted lives lie at the intersect of help and loss.

And a mother sits in a yellow room feeding her child

The love and hope of a better life.

 

Who are all these people?
Who am I to sing of them,

A young journeying freedom writer

With the world at the end of her pen?

 

Children of the soil, come out of them,

You who are unwilling to live in darkness.

Your restless souls, with a will to love and live again,

Are trampled ‘neath the feet of inflated men.

Trapped in the shadows of the shrines to mortal fools,

Mere memories of the great fallen empire of Rome.

With house to house and field to field, where can we go,

And how can we be placed alone?

The skies are scarred with toxic trails of their silver wings.

They’ve gutted the earth for all her wealth, and shunned her wisdom.

And the blood of the innocents never dries in the well of The Plague:

Oh, wretched world dyed black with shame!

 

How can we ignore the truths that have been passed from line to line?

There’s a battle to be fought that’s worth fighting.

Our children’s blood be upon our hands if we sit still and let them be

And let the gilded lies flourish like red upon the sea.

 

I shall sing of ages past when there were heroes,

Men of strength and valor, great fighting men.