So it's true: 1989 really is that far away and I wouldn't care,
Had I not the fortune to be shown the history of memory lost
The sky is falling down and we're being convinced that it's rain,
With ideals as parasols we're soaked all the same
Questioning what we've always known
Here I reconcile the difference between my concern
And long weekend discussions of our weakest ends,
And parlour room socialism; activist party tricks
I'll cut dead the pitch and wane of 10,000 voices screaming,
And I'll draw blood from the claims that Tiananmen isn't everywhere
Beauty is a weapon
Spark the fuse and we could be: just enough, just in time, just of thought
Knowing that all this belongs to us
We will not be sold away on this forum of rights exchange
Where have all the students gone?
Have we been bought as well?
Did we die?
Are we as guilty?
And we'll burn before we learn,
We'll fan these burning textbook pages keeping us awake