|
I grew up in the South in the turbulent time |
|
Not a bad time for a white boy |
|
The country was changing in a peculiar way |
|
And all around me was a sound |
|
Growing sweeter and more murderous all at once |
|
And the people tried to hide their eyes |
|
From the chaos and defiance that was changing them all |
|
And the years passed and not a word was spoken |
|
The years passed, the silence never broken |
|
Quietly, they lead their lives |
|
Of desperation, no words to say |
|
There were those who know the tables would turn |
|
Running out into the burning streets |
|
And hoping to hear the words |
|
Of a prophet or a sage who might come along |
|
And straighten out the mess they had made |
|
The injustice and cruelty by their own hands |
|
Of the ones of another shade |
|
Quietly, they lead their lives |
|
Of desperation, no words to say |
|
Silently, they turned their heads |
|
Their eyes unopened, no words to say |
|
Then one day there was heard a thunderous chant |
|
The voice they feared grew louder and louder |
|
And the day had come at last |
|
Quietly, they lead their lives |
|
Of desperation, no words to say |
|
Silently, they turned their heads |
|
Their eyes unopened, no words to say |
