They built beautiful buildings
and buried their dead in an abbey
that even bombs graced as they
exploded where the grass now grows

But the land is as old as where you stand
And what pain they felt is now a mystery
Do you hear the voices of the graves,
Or the glory of a shadow that stains their history?

Our own people
They live as do underground worms
Only a mile away
Past lights that confuses stops and turns

The poor, forgotten, live alone
They are not exotic enough for us to care
We know them all to well
There is no ancient writing to draw us near

Instead they live on cracked pavement
On ground that will be holy a century from now
Because then the history of our descendants will matter
But today we smile while they wipe their sweaty brow

It is not their beauty that matters
But instead the contemplation of a thousand dreams that never came true
And while you stand next to a mountain or a cathedral
They ask in a language you do not understand
What does it have to do with you?