They connect and feel This Land beneath their feet.
But why do I feel nought but dirt and grass?
Don’t be fooled, I appreciate the base –
Filled with sacrifices and bones of the times of the past.

But is that not the history of everywhere we go?
The soil is filled with our successes and mistakes.
It is what we share in our ***** blood
Yet with the innocence we possess difficult to fake.

The other people of This Land are like any other.
Some possess flowers, some with guns,
And for sure all of them exchange arms
Depending if another is to be (rightfully?) shunned.

I suppose it is me, thinking too strictly.
My head trying to cope with the loneliness I hold.
Or perhaps This Land could just reach me better,
Maybe the people of the Land could have warmed my cold.