Scorched Earth.

Sand is turned to glass;
green pastures have turned black.
The air is thick and rancid with
the smoke; makes us sick.

The price to pay for power,
the price to pay for comfort.
The trigger pulled is the dream lulled,
suspended in time, forever a vision;
forever a hope, eternally wishing.

Wishing for water that is drinkable,
for fruit unspoiled.
Wishing for sunshine that comforts,
for fertile soil.
Wishing for a hand to hold,
a pair of ears, valid;
a pair of eyes, not blind;
a pair of legs to walk on,
a hand to reach up, to the cloud-covered sky.

The price to pay for comfort (the air from our lungs)
the price to pay for power (was taken without cause)
has torn down our towers (for some)
has spoiled our waters. (there's nothing)
A hand to hold (like taking)
a hand to bite (away)
a hand to steal from in the dead of night.
That hand was yours,
that hand was ours.
That hand was there's.
That hand was mine.