In our dreams the mighty fall for fame
Collecting garbage on the path to freedom
Whoever calls them heroes grows insane
If he would know, it wasn’t God who freed them
The streets might have their dirty rotten language
The smell of sickness, alcohol and death
There aren’t trees where peasants grow their sandwich
And still they glorify the golden breath
The hunters seen in life are miserable
In peace they wouldn’t know what they should do
They aren’t proud of any pinnacle
If stories aren’t told what they went through
        Give heroes what they want but do it loud
        Though otherwise it’s them who make them shout.

        © Dominik Alexander / 2024
        © Nick Magwood (image)