feet touch dirt, hands touch the sky   clothes we made hang from a line   we've watched as siblings die and pray we never will   sing these work songs silently   melodies of a thousand years   add a new verse everyday   a tour bus passes now and then, glaring souls as black as night   spirits maimed and crippled could never understand this life   their sympathy is laughable, we are the wealthiest alive   the hotels keep crawling nearer   the hum of bulldozers grows louder   their work songs blaze like bugles in our ears   the sickness is ambition, an insatiable appetite   to put their flags up everywhere, to burn down and build again   can you hold these ashes, tell yourself it was really worth the price?   Plastic priests on "great" missions   Conquistadors with wicked grins   your treasure is a myth   no use in digging here