Ragne's Abyss

05

The green fields of America leave me stranded

Chasing after a life I can not manage

With the aspirations too high to climb

I’m left in a loop, a circle, a pie

Of uncertainty of the future to come

With unfulfilled promises from the ton

I receive small emoluments 

From masters who earn the country’s wages

As the land is embarking on stages

Stages of torment, destruction, starvation

Disregarding our proclamation 

Erasing history and invoking material change

For their benefit, for their gain

As we are left searching for scraps 

In a country that relabels our maps

Working for the one that controls

On land, on soil, they stole.