It's trinkets to the Spiritkeepers
And silver to the opium kings
It's drugs and guns and convict runners
And countries built on such a thing.
And what will be our sacred beacon
With only time to only try
To search our hearts for what's been taken
While leaders eye their conquered sky.
And stomachs roll
While churchbells toll the crime
The rose is crushed
The dove flies past -- It's time.
'Round and 'round the Spirit
With half a chance it still believes
That cities fall but minds don't follow
And goodness hides up someone's sleeve.
Copyright © 1989 Nemesis Publishing, All Rights Reserved