Show me fury, when our hands are remembered.
And we are foolish, where the whispers take hold,
underneath piles of ripped pages that were our living back bone.
Stand in command, our flames have burnt out.
And near our fingertips lays a burden yet to be solved,
as tired and precious as our eyes have shun cold.
I taste the shivers of our melting lies, and soon in our sheets
a barrier of warmth will be denied.
I have held this ground together, with sticks and knifes
but fallen through, we have no worship for breathing roots.
So, we keep on growing with our palms closed up tight.
We dig for more time, for more source of revenue,
that will create our dreams as home.
But who are we to beg? We created this world as our own.
TIGERGROVE 