Roman bridges burning down
no hope of spring from town to town.
The seasons cease to change
heard through the grapevine we need rain.
The crops won’t grow, the fields are dry
Nero bows his head to cry
but tears like these don’t quench the thirst
as high priests say, “It could be worse”
though they’ve turned forests into pyres
they say they didn’t start the fires
but we know they’re lying
as we see our sons and daughters dying.
We’ll bury them in shallow graves
so that they might feel feel the rain
if God decides to cry tonight
to give us respite from this fight