To the Fields We'll Never Own

When the mountains crack and the rivers burn,

When the wolves at the border no longer return,

When the hollowed men raise their thorny crowns,

We’ll still be standing in the blood-stained ground.

They came with flags and a prayer on their breath,

Promised us mercy, then whispered of death.

Said the chain would be lighter if we kissed the throne—

So we bled out belief to the fields we’ll never own.

Ride through the dust where the black banners lie,

Drink to the ghosts that refused to comply.

The dead fields burn while ashes choke crows,

Swear on the chains that your fathers once bore,

Carry the oaths that they bled for before,

Bury your songs where the black thorns grow.

Wrote laws on our backs and treaties in lead,

Prayed over the graves of the ones they left dead.

With lashes of sorrow, we wear proudly our scars,

Underneath a sky full of ancient stars.

They paved over stories with concrete and smoke,

Called us savage while we struggled not to choke.

We broke our backs just to reap what they sow,

And we still raise our glass to the fields we’ll never own.

Ride through the dust where the black banners lie,

Drink to the ghosts that refused to comply.

The dead fields burn while ashes choke crows,

Swear on the chains that your fathers once bore,

Carry the oaths that they bled for before,

Bury your songs where the black thorns grow.

Let the fiddle scream, let the guitar weep,

For the dreams that were shattered, for the promises we keep.

March through the muck with your jaw locked tight,

Like dogs that bite back and don’t run from the fight.

Ride through the dust where the black banners lie,

Drink to the ghosts that refused to comply.

The dead fields burn while ashes choke crows,

Swear on the chains that your fathers once bore,

Carry the oaths that they bled for before,

Bury your songs where the black thorns grow.