The Way of Progress

City lights take over the rural soul, 
Eating the history and swallowing it whole, 
Gulping it down like foul-tasting medicine, 
Until there is nothing left of how things used to be. 

There is nothing left of how things used to be. 

Concrete fills the veins of the roots beneath, 
Murder, from the inside out, of a once live creation, 
Then they put machines over top of the nature, 
And they call it "progress". 

There is nothing left of how things used to be. 

They flock to their handiwork like bees to honey, 
Praising themselves for a job well done, 
Until there is no life outside the walls of this city. 
Only more walls, built in the name of betterment.

There is nothing left of how things used to be. 

They are not alive, 
They are part of a world against living.
They are part of a world that promotes death
In the most painful way possible -- separation. 

There is nothing left.