Chains on the Morning Line

Dawn comes gray on the sand

Whistle cuts through the dark

Bootsteps count off the distance

Keys swing low like a threat

Iron on wrists

Eyes on dirt

Names they spat

Not our own

One of them laughs at the shaking cup

Spills the water

Keeps the stone

Cruel slave guards on the hill

Shouting orders just to feel

Something like power in an empty heart

But they can’t chain the part that stays alive

They can’t chain the part that stays alive

Sun climbs high

Backs turn red

Salt on skin

Salt in wounds

One lifts his stick like a question mark

Lets it fall just to hear the sound

They trade jokes over our pain

Share a smoke

Share a grin

But when they look too long into our eyes

They look away

Like they might fall in

Cruel slave guards on the hill

Shouting orders just to feel

Something like power in an empty heart

But they can’t chain the part that stays alive

They can’t chain the part that stays alive

I count the scars

I count the days (oh yeah)

I count the hands that still reach out in the haze

They hold the guns

They hold the keys

We hold the stories they can’t seize

Cruel slave guards on the hill

Shouting orders just to feel

Something like power in an empty heart

But they can’t chain the part that stays alive

No

They can’t chain the part that stays alive