Farms to Flames

We work the barren land,
We toil the hardened earth,
We search the dry sand,
But fail to prove our worth.
Futile are our struggles,
Fertile are their schemes,
Our hopes are left to dangle,
Open eyes with hopeless dreams.
Dead is our god, who has been deaf,
Vile are the rulers, pretending to be blind,
We cry, we mourn, we plead with empty breath,
Hope to waken, dead conscience and mind.
Battered we stand, with broken bones,
Watching and smirking, they sit on lofty thrones,
Delusional and forgetful, they are on ill-gotten leverage,
But soon people will wake, remembering our unforgotten courage.

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