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| I etch away at the clumps of dirt and ash I brush my hands across a fallen wall. I push my way through a crumbled entrance I scrub until the spidery symbols of crimson evil are small. I let out a sigh as I pick up the books And I blow away the cinders. I place them neatly on their overturned shelves I turn a page but it crumbles in my fingers. I shed a tear as I enter the room Where the young and old would exalt the Lord's name. I sit on a bench and I look towards the heavens And I think of all the others who have done the same. I know things are different now. I know those people will never come back. I will never forget the dust and blood in my hair No one will ever pray here again. The year is 1945. I etch away at the clumps of dirt and ash I brush my hands across a fallen wall. I push my way through a crumbled entrance I scrub until the spidery symbols of crimson evil are small. I let out a sigh as I pick up the books And I blow away the cinders. I place them neatly on their overturned shelves I turn a page but it crumbles in my fingers. I shed a tear as I enter the room Where the young and old would exalt the Lord's name. I sit on a bench and I look towards the heavens And I think of all the others who have done the same. I know things are different now. I know there is hate amongst us. I cannot forget it, for the dust in my hair Has become an eternal part of me. The year is 2002 We will come back and pray here forever. |
| Dust In My Hair |