A fading photo on a wooden shelf
Unlike the memory of the little boy
From what you call "the good old days"
The bitter taste of fall the smell of wet concrete walls
And still you count the cries at night you try to analyse
And evermore the torment lasts
You traced the contours of a union
Where only greed survives
With head held high the victims at your feet
You said afraid to understand
Eternally the cross will burn
But yet not quite so sure