Falling Mountains

Step on a poor bird
And the door of heaven rings
And God will get mad
And destroy our wings

Step on the mountains
With your gold and diamonds
Then they shall fall
To the place of all

Though our love is changed
And our hate is what we breathe
Though our money is strange
But my poem is written by peace

I sit under what you stepped on
I sit under the grace
I doubt that they shall fall
But they fell on my face