Devastation and Reform

Will they survive this cold dreary night?
Will they cower down, or stand up and fight?

While mortars burst, the birth pangs resound.
The Father stands stately, his eyes cast down.

He cannot stand to watch his young men,
Fall in the fight, and die in the sand.

Though he trusts the cause, he does not believe,
that glorious vict'ry is theirs to achieve.

His children shake as he gives the call,
The mighty war cry that signals the fall.

Again the and again, the giants do rise,
To battle together, until one of them dies.

Tradition lowers his ugly head,
And aims for the heart of Revolution.

And at the last moment, just as he strikes,
Our father gathers, and flies up in the night.

Up, up, over his head,
Then escorts Tradition to his deathbed.

But woe, woe, woe are we.
For if inspected, we would see,

The small pinprick that would fill us with dread.
That slows the heart, and turns blood to lead.

In shame, in shame does he look down.
Such a strong face, marred by a frown.

Like those before him he did not escape,
The poisoned filled wound, Tradition did make.

While his daughters dance, and sons celebrate.
He just looks on with such a sad face.

For they know not Revolution's fate,
But he does know, it's already too late.

See this poison, gets in the blood.
The infection lies still, slowly spreading until,
It can pour out its wrath, like an oncoming flood.

And on that sad day, like a phoenix from the ashes,
Revolution becomes Tradition, a tyrannical facist.

He stirkes down by force, those who oppose,
The flow of the masses walking down Life's road.

He knows one day, at the end of his life,
Another will come claiming his rights.

Revolution will come to cut off his head,
And the cycle will start all over again.