Here we sit on a throne built by our elders,
Guarded by an individual’s freedom
And the status of our land.
When we raise our hands over our hearts,
Do we know what we pledge?
Praising a god not all believe in,
An echoed phrase hallowed with time.

And here we sit, shaving the hair from our bodies
And claim we are something different.
The ability to speak is worth more than morals
The young soon find.
Let us sit on the trophies of ancestors and praise our blood,
Have we not surpassed this?

The fortress we’ve lived in for so long
Has withered away,
And the things we once praised are fossils beneath our feet.
Yet the blinds have not let up,
And we stumble around with a pent up hate.
A hate of truth, and secretly justice,
For isn’t it in our nature to compete?

And here we sit on our thrones,
Looking down on the world
With masks of an individual,
An idealistic picture painted by strangers.
With open hearts we yearn for something not permitted,
And by the flag of our people we wish for change.
But the thrones are still there,
And there we will sit and wait
For the deafening sound of silence.