Yesterday night found me with a lot of feelings regarding Philip Hamilton and well, that's the result of it.

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How is a nation born?

When pieces of land are torn

and people only mourn

that's when an idea grows in the back of the world, similar to a sharp thorn.

In the eye of the hurricane,

when trying is vain,

that's when we escape every chain.

In the wake of war,

when blood is shed and you see the gore,

that's when we hear the nation's mighty roar.

The nation lives and grows,

in its veins power flows,

and just like that

a small pile of ash

can burn, drown and crash.

But still we're all blown away,

and somewhere along the way

we forgot how it was to pray.

Power, wealth and shots not thrown away,

we never truly realized; we were led astray.

Before we saw it coming the trigger was pulled,

earth cried but her tears we overruled.

We're too blind to see - un!

his life never matched the plan.

That wasn't how it should end,

but it's too late now-his bones bend!

We were divided in perfect matches - deux!

Trying to find the perfect ending to a book.

But we were just the prologue of a tragic story,

and in the end no one will live to see our glory.

The world aches and parties are formed - trois!

act as if they're fine-yet we still see the blood on their jaw.

The good, the bad and those who stay in the middle,

who will conquer?-that's the ancient riddle.

Friends and family fight - quatre!

The new quest of life is how to be greater.

Stab and deceive-whatever it takes,

For the first time in forever, the world truly shakes.

Yet the nation barks back - cinq!

happens before we even blink.

And the nation astonishes and shines,

but sometimes happiness and power work like parallel lines.

However, there's a bitter truth hiding there - six!

What you break you can't always fix.

The dark poison is already in the heart,

counting the dead-that's not even the hardest part.

The irony is that we know how to count - sept!

and that no promise was kept.

As we fiddle with the trigger,

we forget about the weeping mother-only hope to get bigger.

How does a nation die?

In the same way it was born-with a thunderous applause,

everyone is amazed and no one cares of the cause.

The children of yesterday are thirsty for blood,

and every value from our parents is buried in the mud.

And so our nation dies and whispers apologies of love,

don't worry; it still lives on in the form of a dove.

Still, it's quiet uptown, quiet like never before,

after that we all catch ourselves wanting to live no more.

This is the death of a nation in a form of a boy,

who took with him everything beautiful and all the joy.

The father dies, the mother burns and the world lives on,

we all get to see another dawn.

But once the counting starts, it will never stop

and sooner or later we all fall from the top.

Adieu, hope and adieu our rise,

may we still see our nation in the dead ones' eyes.