How It Tastes
How It Tastes
What is the taste of the blood of Beloveds?
What is the sound of tears spilt alone?
There is a place where all this is known;
This place, the world's embarrassed orphan,
Where insanity reigns, alone
Hard to stand in the presence of massacre
With yet no blood upon one's hands
Hard to shift, foot to foot,
Unwilling to act,
Buying time for killers.
They're "cleansing" the world of their unwanted,
The filth of it stains us all;
Our leaders smearing it across polished tables.
Ask them how it tastes in Bosnia;
In Bosnia they eat their own.
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