May we keep trying to beat our swords into ploughshares
Even though our hands our tired our fingers are frail
Our bombs into sphygmomanometers
Even though our hearts are grown heavy and sad.
Because, I think, the act of trying,
As the cackling winds grow louder around us,
That scrawny act of trying might be
the best chance we’ve got, for now.
Might be what the most we can go for, for now.
Can’t possibly be enough.
Might be something, though.
Might be something.