We walk on glass, our eyes tied with a blindfold.
Ignoring all the screams of passersby.
Our memories come with a distant cry
And worn-out grief that can not be consoled.
Our fathers went to war, so we could hold
This piece of land that’s halfway in the sky,
And hoped our wretched children would not die
Protecting something that’s already sold.
Yet here we are, united not by peace
But by the endless chain of massacres,
A struggling nation, parts of which will cease
Existing,
turns into a senseless blur.
Oh, Humanism, I doubt if you exist,
I doubt if you will or even ever were.
