And of whom, I can not tell.
Are we curled up in our beds,
Or reading, in our jail cell?
Where have all the hero's gone,
Of so few left, I can hardly find.
Yet still it rests in a Mother's touch-
A most miraculous form of it's kind.
Are they invisible? Or as weak as I?
Can they envision, can they fly?
Can they make miracles for the meak
Or can it be true, humanity's a dying breed?
This world has bred nucence around,
That even the cowardly are no longer sound.
And masses oh masses, they wretch once more with hate,
And protest now, that it is the only way.
The blood is unseen that is spilled; while players take to the field. And legislation is passed on holidays when eyes are array.
"The Devil, the Devil has crossed" we cry; the breach of the Rubicon at hand. But what is a cry for a warning, when there are no ears left on the land?
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