ashes in the fall

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 rivers water while

shackled to the the line at the empty well

this is the new sound

just like the old sound

just like the noose wound

over the new ground

this is the new sound

just like the old sound

just like the noose wound

over new ground

listen to the facist sing

take hope here