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Description
The colors drain from the flag.
Tattered and torn,
But still it stands.
A manifestation of our hopes and dreams,
Stained with blood from a martyr’s hands.
The same hands that raised it.
The same hands that shielded it.

I will not stand idly by while the asphalt beneath me becomes a sea of quicksand.
My children need a world they can live in,
Not a world they must fight in.
I will not withdraw,
But I must not fight.
I will not raise a fist,
But I will not take your blows.

I can hear children crying.
I can hear soldiers dying.
I can hear priests praying.
I can hear victims hiding.
But all I see are heroes.

Description
The colors drain from the flag.
Tattered and torn,
But still it stands.
A manifestation of our hopes and dreams,
Stained with blood from a martyr’s hands.
The same hands that raised it.
The same hands that shielded it.

I will not stand idly by while the asphalt beneath me becomes a sea of quicksand.
My children need a world they can live in,
Not a world they must fight in.
I will not withdraw,
But I must not fight.
I will not raise a fist,
But I will not take your blows.

I can hear children crying.
I can hear soldiers dying.
I can hear priests praying.
I can hear victims hiding.
But all I see are heroes.