The hordes are marching In blind indifference hoarding Old truths depart, we all are kings Gold calf, stone hearts ascending Save me, we’re drifting When will we ever learn that money’s only vapor? The armies are marching Upon our shores the dying When will we ever learn that money’s only vapor? Our thoughts, their blood. We reap, we gorge, they bleed; perversion We are accountable for what we know; we reap, we sow. These fleeting lucid thoughts of guilt will drown in what we built. “...there are the daughters of shame; diseased, wronged, ruined. Scrambling down the dark incline to an early grave. There are the children, fighting in the gutter, going hungry to school. Growing up to fill their parents places. Brought it all on themselves, you say? Perhaps so. But that does not excuse our assisting them. You don’t demand a certificate of virtue before you drag some drowning creature out of the water. Nor the assurance in a man of faded grace before you deliver him from the burning building. But what shall we do? Content ourselves by singing a hymn? Offering a prayer? Or giving a little good advice? No! Ten thousand times no! We will forgive them. Feed them! Reclaim them. Employ them! Perhaps we shall fail with many. Quite likely. But our business is to help them all the same.” We’re all blind children wanting more, wanting all. We’ve chained our hearts to the cage of our self-confinement. Gold calf, gold wings Every coin spent is a vote cast. Pile our hoards and count while our world boils (Save me, we’re drifting) We all bought golden violins, yet how they shine not one can sing Save me, we’re drifting