Tuesday 22 July 2008

Killing The Monster

Killing The Monster.

Make way for the monster, the bells all say,
ringing out around the world,
ringing out around the world,
we are safe now,
we are safe now,
the bad thing has gone away,
but the mirror never lies.

For there are no monsters, only reflections,
of what we are inside,
Your morality is just a mask,
a false facade to lie behind,
all the criminals you court,
all the motives you dare deny,
are beasts about to be born.
You can run from who you are,
but where will you hide.

How many fists will seize a stone,
And cast them with a curse,
as countless as the stars,
as countless as the crimes,
as countless as the empty bullet cases,
and the bones in bloody ground,
your dollars delivered to their graves.

Truth is merely a memory, not words upon a page,
you were there, you must remember,
when the battles begun,
and when the last dance ended.
We walked in silence
in the sombre rain,
our country dead within us,
we fought for freedom,
but only hate survives.

I heard violins weep in the city, before the war,
the sacred Rites Of Spring,
haunting us all, a portent of the horror
That we knew was was about to begin,
Then all our hopes fell in flames,
as the Mujaheedin burnt our town,
And led us away like cows to be killed.
I lay there bleeding in Srebrenica,
beside all those Serbian families,
you have forgotten,
your bullets buried in my back,
as blind blackbirds flew over my grave.

Your prisons are printed words, black upon a page,
black as oil, black as dried blood on the ground.
Another sacrifice to expiate the ghosts,
ritual offerings for Pharisees in power,
born in a stable and martyred on a lie.
I am sick of all your propaganda,
the black parade of your hypocrisies,
tired of the criminals you elect,
and the false flag operations,
that you mockingly call history.

President Clinton gave the command to kill our country,
Operation Roots, Yugoslavia must die,
nationalism strangled before it could be born,
So the CIA sowed the deadly seeds of jihad,
From the hills of Helmand to Serbian soil,
KLA mules turning poppies into bombs,
feeding the miseries of addiction,
suckling the veins of Europe’s shame.
Your pens will dig trenches in shallow earth,
in which to bury the screaming past ,
but everything you have been told
is now and forever, nothing but an expedient lie.


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