So many things that these hands have made
a faded page for which they paid
jaded pain and a heart so splayed
these hands have made a past that stayed

they are capable of making disdain and hate
staying shaky for their aiming fate
stained by debating ways as of late
these hands are making a day that can't wait

grass blades whistle and the winds do rave
the fires rage and can't be staved
there's no way you can be saved
these hands were made to dig your grave