The plaza in the village where mission bells used to ring is now crumbled to a pile of stench and ruin even the swallows have spring all the blossoms are burried ‘neath the waste out of the shadows grow hatred along the corrider crawls fear crushed by the promise of hope that never returned watched with a hawk’s trained eye trees grow silent fruit ‘neath a suffering sky those who have stayed, keep a flame in memory of the fallen and pass on the old rites despite the risk but many more have left here on mended broken wings turning to see your reaction a tear drop fills your eye but you protest not to give up as give in heading straight for the wreckage picking up a shovel and a hoe start putting back the bricks one by one numbers come out of the woodwork corious to see the rebirth above the swollen clouds a strange sound fills the air a silence never heard falling like blessed rain and the swallows return as the mission bells ringTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
