From ashes we rise 

until turned to dust and hope

to irritate eyes 

The satirists have

been sacked and sci fi writers 

put out to pasture 

They cut your war braids 

and choked off your fierce cries but

you'll have the last laugh 

The drum's cadence has

slowed from fevered call to arms

to graveside murmur 

In sway to a dream

that's been dead for decades you

kill any future 

A name nearly lost

suddenly surfaces and 

makes the past present 

Our scars like ancient 

footpaths tell only part of 

the story of life