Songs of Men Who Meant the Most: We’re Pressed For Time segment

A new dawn rises over the horizon

Blotted out by box towers.

Those trapped inside silently cry for freedom

That we refuse them.

 

My room, barely lit at noontime hours,

Quiet where I am still cocooned in warm sheets,

Sheltering from heatless stale air I cannot see through –

Too thick with dust that coats the filth around me.

I breathe – choke on bad decisions and lethargy,

Writhe in comfort that became my prison,

Forcing me out into vulnerability, throwing open the window,

And facing the bitter struggling light.

 

Millions losing hope to go on,

Marching like soldiers to meaningless death.

Those who stop and scream for freedom,

Crumple and die on the streets, abandoned.