This is the chaos that hovers over the champs in chains that were lashed to work over the bricks and dust that instituted the country that we built.
This is the flag that sways intact as the hills of pride and mountains of contentment beckon the soldiers to sleep while they memorize the words of the anthem that is embalmed in the throne — that is situated in the corners of the country that we built.
These are the figures that blaze the highways in order to guard your doors, sweep your yards, polish the silver, wet your gold, tuck your sheets, and crowd the buses. At the end of the day, you reward them with cramped cash and old coins that you piously minted with privilege in the country that we built.
This is the park that houses the kids, dressed to perform in hues dipped in culture, running around with squeals of joy, armed with the security of parents, grandparents and generations that sacrificed the semblance of unity for broken parts — in order to provide the extension of living in the country that they built.
Here we are, alone and disheveled. Disorganized and perplexed by the earthquake that has devastated all the regions with the avalanche of evidence — that all dedication and the belief system that was strewn from fear and arrival has now been replaced with sledgehammers.
They are working overtime to wreck havoc on the hopes and dreams that were stacking up to heights unknown in the beautiful country that we built.
The country that we built is in shambles, but renovations are in order.
Please. Please give the order that will save millions.