Delusions

The grey clouds part
Comes out no hopeful ray of light
But a piercing blast of hated heat
And with it our hopes depart
Oh cursed land!
Barren of hope and freedom
Why must we dwell
In thy cruel unyielding bosom
While our dreams lie dead, cold and fell.

As the traveller of the dusty roads
reaches the end of his journey
and for the last run his mind goads
Him, for truth is near, he is weary
And the righteous victim finds
that the author of this most gruesome of deeds
the defiling hands that perperated these crimes
are his own

For when along the dagger-path you walk
when you teeter beside the razors edge
Both sides are one
Both sides emerge
equally dark in the abscence
of opportunity
And that last instrument of denial
fades through the blood-stains of time
A futility called hope...