My city is burning to light up your sky,

shrines turn to debris in the blink of an eye.

Desperate for cobalt, your thirst never quenched,

across the black borders you can't feel the stench

of rotting flesh staining the floor,

the broken lock on our back door.

The priveleged watch from the bench,

'cause it isn't a crisis

until there's a war.

Tell me where will you run

when we're done bleeding dry,

and you've run out of oil to pour?