How Does It Feel?

Intro. When you woke this morning you looked so rocky-eyed,
blue and white normally, but strange ringed like that in black
It doesn’t get much better, your voice can get just ripped up
Shouting in vain. Maybe someone hears what you say, but you’re
still on your own at night.
You’ve got to make such a noise to understand the silence.
Screaming like a jackass, ringing ears so you can’t hear the
silence even when it’s there—like the wind seen from the
window; seeing it, but not being touched by it.
We never asked for war, nor in the innocence of our birth were
we aware of it. We never asked for war, nor in the struggle to
Realisation did we feel there was a need for it. We never
asked for war, nor in the joyful colours of our childhood were
we conscious of its darkness.
HOW DOES IT FEEL? Chorus. How does it feel to be the mother
of a thousand dead? Young boys rest now, cold graves in cold
earth. How does it feel to be the mother of a thousand dead?
Sunken eyes, lost now; empty sockets in futile death.
Your arrogance has gutted these bodies of life, your deceit
fooled them that it was worth the sacrifice. Your lies
persuaded people to accept the wasted blood, your filthy pride
cleansed you of the doubt you should have had. You smile in
the face of death because you are so proud and vain, your
cruel inhumanity stops you from realising the pain that you
inflicted, you determined, you created, you ordered—it was
your decision to have those young boys slaughtered.
You never wanted peace or solution, from the start you lusted
after war and destruction. Your blood-soaked reason ruled
out other choices, your mockery gagged more moderate voices.
So keen to play your bloody part, so impatient that your war
be fought. Iron Lady with your stone heart so eager that the
lesson be taught that you inflicted, you determined, you created,
you ordered—it was your decision to have those young boys
slaughtered.
Chorus.
Throughout our history you and your kind have stolen the young
bodies of the living to be twisted and torn in filthy war.
What right have you to defile those births? What right have
you to devour that flesh? What right to spit on hope with the
gory madness that you inflicted, you determined, you created,
you ordered—it was your decision to have those young boys
slaughtered.
Chorus.
You accuse us of disrespect for the dead, but it was you who
slaughtered out of national pride. Just how much did you care?
What respect did you have as you sent those bodies to their
communal grave? You buried them rough-handed, they’d given you
their all, that once living flesh defiled in the hell that you
inflicted, you determined, you created, you ordered—it was your
decision to have those young boys slaughtered.
You use those deaths to achieve your ends still, using the
corpses as a moral blackmail. You say “Think of what those young
men gave” as you try to bind us in your living death, yet we do
think of them, ice cold and silenced in the snow covered
moorlands, stopped by the violence that you inflicted, you
determined, you created, you ordered—it was your decision to
have those young boys slaughtered.