Clean hands

This neverending fight,
will it stop at any hight.
Or will they stop,
these western runawayflights.
For whom is to know
these are strange days.
How can we still look them in the face
Is shame not a part of us,
is humiliation strange to us.
What does it take for us to wake up, (being hit by a bus?).

The smell of dirt,
is a stench we try to ignore.
We bathe in it so we become the sweet and the sour (the smell becomes one of us).
We hear the knocking,
but who?s (brave enough) to open the door.
Our blood is their blood
and their blood is ours.

It bleeds for me and because of thee, but i don?t look up to see.
Instead i look the other way,
And that?s how it?s going to stay.
Am i not human,
have i no sympathy,
have i no guilt.
Have i not destroyed,
before i had build.
Still i try to wash my hands..