Tuesday, December 18, 2012

(We are the) Masters of the World


Flying high
In the sky,
We are the Masters of the World.

Flying Low
Flying slow,
With banners waving and flags unfurled
We are the Masters of the World.

In our terrible machines,
Built so pristine,
We fly beneath the sun.
No sounds are heard
As the fields are burned,
When all was said and done.

In the night
Looking bright
We are the Masters of the World.
We heard the call,
We saw the heavens fall,
We are the Masters of the World.

Over the land
Over the sea
With outstretched hands
We set you free.

To choose a life,
Under the sword and knife,
It doesn’t matter to us at all,
For we have heard the call,
We are the Masters of the World.

Take a look some night,
When all is silent,
And you will see a sight
That will give you a fright.

Fires blazing on the horizon,
A shadow hanging in the sky.
The time is drawing near,
As the world turns and cries.

Fires bringing death,
Between each and every breath,
We are the Masters of the World.

As quiet as mice,
As cold as ice,
You lay there curled
We are the Masters of the World.

No more disease,
No more war,
Praying on your knees,
On the edge of the shore.

To all who hear,
Those far and near,
To the Masters of the World.

You ask why?
What have you done?
To deserve to die
Under the lightning gun.

Was it too much violence?
Not enough silence?
Does it matter anyway?
Does it do any good to stay?
When all is said and done?

Too many victims,
And no one has won.
Was it the sins of the ancients,
Inflicted upon the young?

Time cannot tell
For the hour glass fell
Spilling out all the sand.

No music is heard
Not even a word
All across the land.

Our ship flies straight
Without malice or hate
We are the Masters of the World.

Over the barren ground
Under the sea,
No life was found
By the Masters of the World.

All is quiet.
All is right.
We are the Masters of the World.


© R. A. Barbere