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The land is barren,
but how can you not see
the untilled soil, the gray stalks,
the parched branches you never held?

How can you not see the paint
made by the blood of our people,
making each morning shine until it burned?

How can you not, when the ground was slick
with the pieces of what held this forsaken country
for as long as they did?
The failed bravery, the loyalty placed in souls
who only thought of themselves,
the wealth piled into the wrong pocket
—how can you not see
the land you toiled never belonged to you
nor will it ever belong to you?

This is our time of war,
and I can never beg enough,
can never wrench your eyes open
to this reality we never asked for.
In our time of war,
there might not be a chance
to cure a malady you gave yourself,
or a moment to save the desperate.
There might not be a time for war
to destroy all we deemed part of ourselves
even though no one told us to.

In our time of war,
how can you not see how I bleed
through sealed wounds given by the signs?
I am screaming for help,
but with your upturned hand,
you resigned me to a fate
worse than our time of war.
And down on this path of ruin,
how can you not see
where the end will take me?

You cannot do anything, except hope
that it will be an era of peace.
You better hope
that I am not driving down the highway
towards my own time of war.
You must cling to hope, even if it kills you,
because whatever awaits me
when the fire quenches all we held dear,
it will be your time of war.
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