We are the children of Red White and Blue,
Who stand and watch giants wash eagles from our sky.
It is mostly our fault.
We dodge carcasses because we are too lazy to get dirty--too afraid, to get lucky. Liberty sings--well so does the bullet--and as we stand on safe ground, there's a touring chorus in Afghanistan, and a military on our street corners.
We stand and we listen, the children of Red White and Blue, as giants stamp our eagles into drums, drowning out our choices to reach the boxes of our voices--
But we strangle ourselves.
I'm talking about you, and I'm talking about me, the children of Red White and Blue, but mostly White, and mostly Blue--at least that's how we pretend to see it.
Our giants are not us--they are the giants and we are the children. They tower, we lift--so while they brave our roofs, these four walls can crumble and pay the hospital debts.
Every day we hold our fathers in our hands, and we give them away--we spend what they told us, what they died for, what they sang for on this ground--bled red on this ground.
They once shone like silver and gold but we've passed them around, and now they've lost all luster; stained in the coccaine dreams and gunpowder promises of us children, gawking at the giants, not caring of the fate we yo-yo on a string but cannot see,
Because there are giants to gaze at.
The ground we hover, the ground our fathers bleed into, the ground our giants will continue to stand on, is a declaration with the "yes" that can start our no's. No to indifference, no to racism, no to lines: of drugs we sniff and of cracks the giants allow.
No to tolerance of the intolerant, and the shut-downs of our voices and rights--because when the eagles hit the ground, they are nothing but doves--
Nothing but doves--
Nothing but doves--
And we walk over them.
On the ground, it may seem like giants rule our country, but I am telling you: together, we can all be Davids. We cannot change what they have done, but we can change what we have seen. We are a youth-filled generation with stones in our pockets that sink like feathers into denim depths, but eagles fly with feathers, and yes--they die with feathers! Live, and cry, and die with their feathers.
But at least we can throw ours, and watch as they touch ground.