Generic

daily i wake up to crying voices 
of ancient hopes. 
liberty and prosperity seem like perpetual 
dellusioinal illusions. 
even after the blood shed, sweat and tears 
liberty remains a phantom of the hoped for 
the heavenly corridor 
that leads to the hall of fallen heroes 
is filled with subtle mummers of "was it worth it?" 
as they turn to see how we spit at their sacrifice. 
the poor are the echoing of the voices of those who laid down their lives. is this the freedom our fathers died for? 
they ask with tears in their eyes and anger in their heart. 
do you want to tell me the dead do not speak? 
when daily i hear their voices in the failures of the living.