We were born to be troubadours
We’d run and sing, we’d cry out loud
Laughter, mirth, and praise would ring
From hill to valley, North and South,
The beats of horse and heart would count our time
And our words were proud.
We’ve grown silent, and stagnant
Unmoving and strained with scratched throats
And charred earth on every side.
Fear felled our faith and chaos quelled our love.

We were born to be warrior poets
Raised to be bold, be brave
To write, rhyme, keep time
Keep pressing on
Spiritual, lyrical, dogfight and free-for-all
We sang of glory, songs of praise
And took arms to free our tongues to sing.
But now our pens have gone dry
Our swords have dulled and rusted,
With no telling which may be mightier
Our arms sagged and knees bent
From the weight of the world hung on our words
The hearts of the hearers held in our hands
The purity of our passion polluted.

Princes we were
Raised from the ground, shaking off the shackles of soil and sod
Freed from the ravages of fear and failure
To rise, to rule, to reign
An empty throne
A broken kingdom
Poisoned from above and below
Our sceptres grew thorns
Our blood runs red, not blue
We are peasants
We are mortals
We are beaten.

We were born to be more
To grow beyond the confines of this empty vision
Monotone and monochrome
Can’t keep time, can’t rhyme, can’t write home
We were raised to be free
To soar unbound on wings like doves
To see the earth from such heights
We’d dance with the divine
But our wings were clipped, our hearts slipped
Our passion quit
And we have become grounded, dull and gray

We were born to live.
We’ve died.
We need to be revived.