The eagles will pick on us, my child
while we nurture our soil,
they will confine us to the unwanted,
but you must rise, my child.
They will spill our blood and feast,
while we weep under the fog of the ceased.
Keep your head high my child,
before their curse falls upon you,
Our skies remain blurred,
but never stop clearing them my child
for the boiling spilled blood rages among us
for their cries were unvoiced.
Let the soil worms rise again to the surface,
and make their soils fertile again.