The figure looms overhead
With its foreboding bronze
That the sun may reflect off
And burn the tops of our heads
We examine each others' feet
Shuffling on the ground
Restless to hide in the shade--
Away from history, now
No one here believes
That we are history repeating
We are too small for that, they say
This giant before us
Could rest in the clouds
With ambrosia for drink
But we-- we sit on the rocks
With our bottles of water and sunscreen
We are like tourists visiting the past
We revere the man that no longer speaks
That spoke another language
Though, as he tips his spear up to God
We reflect that spear made war
