Summer's Last Sound

- and the gulls are coming in off the coast
the smell of corpses pour from in
mass graves uncovered
must be abroad, it can't be here
I can sense your violence, but I still don't understand
the way the past looks dead when you've got the future in the palm of your hand
run quick through noble streets
where killers hide
and freaks get bricks in windows
and foreigners get hushed up trials
and you're waiting for (...)
which will tell you if you'll spend the next few years
free from an attack of a petrol bomb
the price of bread went up five pence today
and an immigrant was kicked to death again
and I'm scared for my life
for the first time in it
and we never learned
that a home can put your life at risk
so I guess we'll just disperse again
and the gulls come in off the land
the easy targets lure them in
few scars are left
don't be absurd, it can't be here
until we find a place to settle, we just keep moving on
we stay in flocks like birds, no one dares to move alone
across a sea of burning skulls
chased by death in all its forms
over mountains, under suns
we shoot to kill, we shoot for fun
across a desert's burning skies
we never stop to sleep or eat
death always finds us in the end
its burning shadow always weeping
over hot hamlets and plains
a killer wants to see us slain
over fields of wheat and grain
through the endless pouring rain
why can we never find a safe place to land?
when will we find ourselves in God's providing hand?
They close in every day...