The fields of Detoit
blow a wind of poverty.
Only a soul to find pure
lost in the bells of abandon
churches of empty prayers.
Says the saint
this place needs some help.
Says the saint
stock the shelves of soup kitchens.
Says the saint
but the fields just whisper
of injustice,
and the depth of the horrid life.
What is left?
What is left?
The houses burn in the night
as the street lights fail
on the path of lost hope.
A project strides to say
but silence, silence holds, holds
from the powers that be.
What is left after
the exodus?
Could you part the rouge river?
And let my people free
to encounter salvation
in the atonement of false faith.
Detroit, Detroit, Detroit --
What can it be?
The hurt of reality,
or the good people's fantasy?
Bring us fate to testify
if it would help.
Religion, no -- philosophy is all left
in the silent production of horror wheeling onto streets
leading to hate, violence, arson.
Help, hope, and faith.
Give us resolution,
or give us death.
Say the fields of Detroit.
