So many summers past that scorching day
When hearths were silent and houses burnt
When the vale was latched in barrel bolts
And heads were aimed by in aimless marks

Yet no aim could tame the tempest voice
That sought to reclaim their stolen fields
And weave again the orient designs
As seekers fell, more rose to claim

The untamed hearts no tyrant could quell
By the city square a slumber was broken
That seeks in streets old chains to break

In locks that changed but the keys remained
In the guard that changed at the tyrants place
The man who cried foul our 75 grand sale
Grabbed the march lead and claimed the mast
Only to sell us again for a song and progeny

Both weak and measly, but held to a whip
That cracks again in the impostors might

No triumphs were held sans pain or loss
Our bodies dispensed but the aim intact
When we are felled, more will rise
To march a tempest to the tyrants place
When the Bastille is stormed will the vale regain.

13th July 2013, 9:22 PM