Tears from the hills
Destroy the city we built.
We ignored our mother’s magnificent quil
And spilled our oil paint all over her aged canvass.
Lost in our vices, we ignored the peace rain
And advanced our reign
At our mother’s pain.
Now the dark clouds spit cold fire onto us
And the wind freeze our sins before they erupt.
Mother clears the rubbish that we make
And puts all in order, for our own sake.