On the streets, they wait for death.
In tunnels, they wait for death.
In hallways, they wait for death.
And what death has befallen sound
Where voices once lived.
What death has befallen sound,
And life, and games and laughter,
And revolving doors unlocked for play.
Now open field for target practice.
A single player on each turn.
Losers below the ground.
This is a game.
Scattering youth like splinters of gentle wildfire.
Children underground between the Pacific and the Atlantic.
Our map, our country on fire.
Silent smoke rising into the eyes
Of the ones who play our cards like marionettes.
The ones who profit from our ammunition.
These are their days. But what of their nights?
When they put their children to sleep
What death has befallen sound?