The Hill of Bones

We are all standing on a hill of bones; skulls piled high around us,
The hills turn to high jagged mountains; full of gold power and pus,
Below us stretch the plains, vast savannahs; from whence we all arose,
Down there; the man in the gutter, the woman sewing clothes,
All of us are working, sleeping, living,
On dead people's bones.

On our hill we can see further, but cannot see the detail,
Thus even with knowledge and compassion our intentions can fail,
Even from the damaged souls, active and diverse participation,
Is needed with solidarity to achieve true social emancipation,
All of us, strong, lame, sick of brain,
Must make the revolution.

Digging in the boneyard, trying to make a road,
The millstone of culture serving as my load,
Throw a rock to feed a friend,
Cause all charity has it's natural end,
Beware the crusader up on high,
And the facile lies he will ply,
Because what is hidden from the eye,
Is the pile of bones he stands on,
That reaches to the sky.