A whisper in the dark,
The spirit of turmoil
Looms large.
Neither indoor nor out,
It sways like the branches of a tree
Under streetlight shadows;
Like one who sat there to learn,
And then conquer better terms,
Of words to make freedom,
Bound by conspiration,
Discontent, quiet,
A vindictive reservation.
The masses cry,
And call for a hanging,
A flogging, a quarter,
To fill the despair,
Of hopeless gods,
Who beat chests,
And bloody sacred grounds,
For votes of power,
To veto oaths of ancestors.
A whisper in the dark,
The spirit of turmoil,
Looms large.
