Take me back to a place worth seeing,

these bleeding rafters that hold mud ceilings,

we cry out to hear an echoes embrace,

for dreams laying hollow among this place,

Bells ring among powder's stench,

blood flows from our wounds for Lucifer's quench,

yet we came here by a raise of hand,

to fight for Madame Liberty's stand,

but as the fog clears the sky,

a epiphany's tear rolls from my eye,

Who are the terrorists; them or we,

for all are dying from political vanity.