I cannot produce,
I cannot be used.
I sit here in dryness,
I call this abuse.

Seeds fall into me,
as they always do,
I cannot grow roses,
& flowers won't bloom.

My purpose stands nowhere,
I cannot see.
Why oh mother Earth,
would you do this to me?

I want to make tulips,
all lusciously aglow.
But there is a feeling,
I will never know.

Soil infertile,
Soil inebriate.
Why must I suffer,
such horrible fate?

Bring me winter,
Bring me spring,
bring all of the beautiful birds,
for them I want to sing.

Let me grow tulips,
let me grow roses.
As the sun shines,
on the children's noses.

Give me a beautiful,
wonderful garden.
Let me grow wood,
Let the tree's roots harden.

If I looked after the earth,
I'd burn it in passionate flames.
Bones inherit the soil,
not left a soul to claim.

The scent of rotting flesh,
brings essence to the finish
Life becomes extinct --
& so has the world within it.

Rich in confinement,
I slowly grow deranged.
Soon am I to join them,
hearken shrieks of the claimed.

My name is a song to them,
lost to genocide's insanity.
The voices in my head would claim;
"It's soon to be your fantasy."

The grand rite performed,
& all has been fore-said.
I am to dine and dance --
with the souls of the dead.