Son of Plenty - Daniel Kahn, the Painted Bird

I am a son of plenty who was raised against this land

For fathers of my mothers had been wasted by its hand

Betraying here the warnings of my blood

So fly a flag of flaglessness, for if each flag was stained

With all the blood the helpless masses

Shed beneath their names, we’d all salute the color of the mud

So speak not of your righteousness for though you may be true

The tree of evil might just have its seed inside of you

Waiting for the proper time to bloom

And we the chosen children of this martyrdom must learn

That martyrs turn to murderers when tables have been turned

And history repeats its bloody tune

But though they say that history repeats what isn’t learned

I feel that there is fallacy within these simple terms

For history is more than just a stream

It is the very ocean into which our rivers flow

A myriad of motions going round us to and fro

And we are both its dreamers and the dream

So put a song of memory upon your broken tongue

And realize the melodies in bells already rung

Are in the very bells we may now hear

So let the broken words be learned, let the song be sung

Let the painted birds return, and let the bells be rung

Though not a note is new unto our ears