Blood is running down my thigh,
Causes me to tremble, cold
I can't offer an answer why,
It's not a tale that is simply told.
My words are all tied into little knots,
Sprawled on the floor for a crime I did commit,
A crime of hatred to patriots,
How I wished I'd far rather quietly sit.
We casually discussed the movement of the land
Taking it upon ourselves to decide its shape,
But the little sparks are forming in the palm of my hand
And your smiling mouth will soon be covered by tape.
We are not to speak although we bleed
Not to speak although we feel,
Not to speak or breath or read.
We are not to speak, for it's all too real.
