This song reflects the common tragedy one finds in many third-world countries desperate to make it 'up there': the barter and sale of values and ethics in exchange for the 'good life'. I write as a citizen, not a visitor, out of the pain I feel for my people and nation, as I see that we're unable to discern between true progress and that which has its form, but denies its power. I sat on the edge of an old wooden chair, The walls were pale green and bright was the air, And I listened to the sound of a story unfold Of the end of a dream, of the rusting of gold. A family once lived, and they lived many years In the city of steel, in the city of fear, And the rumble and scream wore their nerves down to shreds, So they went far away from the heat and the dread. Now, they found them some land where the air was still sweet And the sound of mad strife and the thump of its feet, Could fade in the light like a distant, bad dream, And they built with their hands a home in the green. A decade passed by with gentle, slow step Like a dream in the summer, like a gentle sweet breath, But the snake-like course of 'Progress' now lay Abiding its time, and setting its way. Now, the land there was still, and gentle its face, And its innocence drew the Cityman's race, With groping hands a-quiver, they grasped and they pawed, Till the land was a-bleeding before the Mall Lords. Five resorts were birthed from the lust of that rape, Five thousand came weekly to the pools and the cakes, To the blast of pop music, to the jeers and decay, They skinned Life alive and they danced round her stake. What happened to that family who'd lived all those years In the hope of some goodness, and freedom from fears? Well, their land with its flowers and freshness of air Is trapped now in the center of 'Vanity Fair'. A jail without bars, they can neither leave nor stay, The well is now drying up, the flowers turn gray, With a wry sort of sadness they told me this tale, While the air all around me turned silent and pale. I looked all around and said, "What's going on here? Is a storm there, a-brewing, and what's all this fear?" With a flash of deep vision, I saw straight through the veil, The sight of a snake that was swallowing its tail. Like a beggar turned king, this nation now feasts In the gap that divides beauty and beast, "It's resources!" we say, "The truth's in that word!" And the voice of Compassion no longer is heard. They say the grave's hunger can't be satisfied; It's the dead that consume, the living give life, With hands of cold stone, we tear out our hearts In delusions we've set up in the malls and the marts. This land that I live in is tilled by the lives Of poor men a-sweating beneath burning skies, But the laws that we make can be bent with great ease Till they're curved swords of steel on the necks of the weak. Well, I'd rather live hurting, and be violently alive With hands that can feel and eyes that can cry, It's an evil eye I'm calling if I just turn away And hide from reality and whitewash my grave. I can shout the word 'Progress!' till my face starts to bleed, But it's greed that I'm serving, and it's lust that I feed If the steps to my heaven are built on the weak And the fullness of life is just a breast to be squeezed. This was a difficult write. The temptation to be politically correct was great, but the urge to write truth was greater. Thank you for reading this. Your comments are always helpful. Best wishes, hanevi.