The brown and orange sky holds its breath
As the sun retreats to the distant horizon
And our hearts palpitate anxiously
As we soon will lay supine
And wait for sleep to overcome us

And from somewhere in our black subconscious minds
When we're asleep,
Comes a haunting swelling mass of voices resonating
It screams of forgotten victims and the
Cries of innocence,
And the desperate plea for recognition and recompense

Tiny voices, echoes of our heritage,
Our long and sallow faces turn the other way
Tiny voices, harbored deep within
As we outwardly deny that they have something to say
And if we don't confront them, they will never go away

The billions of tiny pinhole ambers fade into
A morning sky filled with poignant morose wonder
Waking, we bear a cosmetic peace that verifies the turmoil
That we carry deep inside.