Man in the Gilded Tower

I hope this letter finds you, sir, I hope you have the time

between the rallies and the ruin, to read this little rhyme.

I'm writing from the heart of what you say you came to save,

a land of quiet desperation, a half-empty, open grave.

I have a simple question, if I may be so bold,

for the prophet of the forgotten, with the palace made of gold.

When you see the children in the cages, do you see your children's eyes?

Or are they just a currency of your acceptable lies?.

Does the sound of all that cheering drown the sound of all the cries?.

Does the loyalty they offer you feel like a sweet surprise?.

Or does it feel just like a weapon that you've sharpened and you've aimed

at the heart of every single thing you secretly disdained?.

Did you ever love this country, sir, or just the sound of your own name?.

Did you ever see the people, or just pieces in a game?.

When you talk about your greatness, and the paradise you've built,

do you ever feel the tremor of a nation's rising guilt?.

And when you look out from your tower, at the smoke and at the fire,

are you proud of your creation, does it feed your soul's desire?.

I'm writing from a town that has a brand new kind of fear;

we were told the threat was coming, we never thought the threat was here.

Inside the halls of power, with a smile and with a pen,

turning all our decent neighbors into your kind of angry men.

You promised us a feast, but all you gave us was the salt

to rub into the open wounds and tell us it's our fault

that we are broken, that we're failing, that we've somehow lost the thread

while you were selling off the future for the voices in your head.

Did you ever love this country, sir, or just the sound of your own name?.

Did you ever see the people, or just pieces in a game?.

When you talk about your greatness, and the paradise you've built,

do you ever feel the tremor of a nation's rising guilt?.

And when you look out from your tower, at the smoke and at the fire,

are you proud of your creation, does it feed your soul's desire?

This isn't a rebellion, 'cause you've taken all the guns

and given them to fearful fathers and their nervous, angry sons.

No, this is just a letter, from a place you'll never see,

a quiet conversation between what you are and me.

A final, simple question, that I need you to impart:

did you ever, for a second, have a single human heart?.