Shiver me crimson,
shiver me bones.
I'm choking on the dust
of lives I've never known.

I devour the pictures
of a past that should be mine,
and live with the aftershocks
of an earthquake I wasn't born for.

It's like coming home
to a nation at war.
Children are the casulties,
and my hands, though armed, useless.

I send my voice to heaven.
I hope for help from a lord
that has always failed me.
I bite my lip and pray.

I pray to Saint Jude.
The patron saint of the hopeless.
And I pray to Saint Michael,
to carry me to battle.

To battle on his wings
shall I come.