I see a small, clammy hand, Grasping after the world. My country, pounded in sand: As the oligarchs are thrilled. My ancestors died, To give us liberty, The pilgrims’s pride, Now undermined bitterly. Every mountainside, Free to be demolished. As we see the rising tide, Which should be admonished. Once I could love, The rocks and rills, With birds soaring above, Thy woods and hills. Let us all awake, Let the silence break! Dirty air we will partake, Clean water,... Read more