THE BONES OF THE ANCESTORS

A cry is heard for their people,
The ancient and most sacred of man,
Whose battles paint the city tonight.

A chant floods over their people,
The youngest and most elderly of men,
Whose corpses blanket the city tonight.

Sing, oh how they sing for their people,
The poorest and most humble of men,
Whose souls were lost to the city tonight.

A hymn is heard for their children,
Their now bloody and beaten kin,
Whose bodies fail in the streets tonight.

A requiem floods over their children,
Their now wide-eyed and trodden kin,
Whose cadavers lay without shrouds tonight.