I am a farmhouse
Born of my owner's calloused hands
He didn't have much,
But in his heart was rich as any man.

He was a plowman,
He dug the earth so people had their fill,
By no fault of his own,
Smaller lives were claimed by his skill.

It was not biased,
Took the flowers and the serpents too
And when he saw his wreckage,
From his lips there would come a tune:

In that we do
Similar things
To those in our shadows,
With equal
Indifference, carnage, and cyclicity
In stirring the soil,
In shuffling the soul,
Indifference can only be
Accepted, painfully
For it is simply fair.

I knew a worker,
He saw to the colony's Queen
She was their lifeblood,
For several generations she had been.

Until one day,
The plowman's work brought about his till
And it found his poor Queen,
He carried her for hours
To their hill.

They all decided
To lay her beneath their nursery,
And their lives in shambles,
Animals looking upwards, they did sing:

In that we do
Similar things
To those in our shadows,
With equal
Indifference, carnage, and cyclicity
In stirring the soil,
In shuffling the soul,
Indifference it can only be
Accepted, painfully
For it is simply fair.

The plowman one night,
Returned to my sight
But it wasn't long
Before dark skies
Tower of death in clouds
Could tell the trees to bow,
And I couldn't keep him from this plow.

I begged to let him stay,
As it tore my roof away,
But it wasn't long;
The plowman's gone.
Finally the sun arrived,
And I thought he must have died,
But somewhere near, I heard a cry:

In that we do
Similar things
To those in our shadows,
With equal
Indifference, carnage, and cyclicity
In stirring the soil,
In shuffling the soul,
Indifference can only be
Accepted, painfully
For it is simply fair.