We are

the people driving the streets

the reporters we love and hate

We are

the surgeons, the murderers

the rebels, the senators

We are

the protesters and police of state



We are

the painters with wondrous galleries

the athletes in the Hall of Fame

We are

the poets, the con artists

the impoverished, the satirists

We are

the forgotten with no face forlorn with name



We are

the dead and the children of life

the writers of what the future's for

and so as infants we will rise

when we haven't parents anymore