What's left

The fields where I once wandered are bare, dry, and gray,

The rivers that once whispered have all gone away.

The wise in their towers, they cheer the charade,

While the soil turns to ashes from the choices they've made.

How much of the country is left to call our own?

The roots are pulling free, and the seeds are never sown.

They're sitting by the fire, singing high in their halls,

While we pick up the pieces of a world that falls.

The roads are cracked and shattered, the barns caving in,

The church bell's gone quiet, can't drown out their sin.

The men with all the answers wrote their names in stone,

And left the rest of us here to crumble alone.

How much of the country is left to call our own?

The roots are pulling free, and the seeds are never sown.

They're sitting by the fire, singing high in their halls,

While we pick up the pieces of a world that falls.

A child stands in silence, her hands clutching clay,

She builds with what's broken, trying to find her own way.

The wise men don’t see her, just hear their own tune,

But her stars burn much brighter while their sun meets its doom.

How much of the country is left to call our own?

The roots are pulling free, and the seeds are never sown.

They're sitting by the fire, singing high in their halls,

While we pick up the pieces of a world that falls.