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Rage Against the Machine: Ashes in the Fall

Linked by Paul Ciano on February 11, 2017
Howard Zinn

A mass of hands press on the market window
Ghosts of progress dressed in slow death
Feeding on hunger and glaring through the promise
Upon the food that rots slowly in the aisle

A mass of nameless at the oasis
That hides the graves beneath the master’s hill
Are buried for drinking the river’s water
While shackled to the line at the empty well

Listen to the fascist sing
“Take hope here. War is elsewhere
You were chosen. This is god’s land
Soon we’ll be free of blot and mixture
Seeds planted by our forefather’s hand.”

A mass of promises begin to rupture
Like the pockets of the new world kings
Like swollen stomachs in Appalachia
Like the priest that fucked you as he whispered holy things

A mass of tears have transformed to stones now
Sharpened on suffering and woven into slings
Hope lies in the rubble of this rich fortress
Taking today what tomorrow never brings

Ain’t it funny how the factories’ doors close
‘Round the time that the school doors close
‘Round the time that the doors of the jail cells
Open up to greet you like the reaper

This is no oasis.

Paul Ciano

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