| The plaza in the village |
| Where mission bells used to ring |
| Is now crumbled to a pile of stench and ruin |
| Even the swallows have spring |
| All the blossoms are buried |
| 'neath the waste |
| Out of the shadows grow hatred |
| Along the corridor crawls fear |
| Crushed by the promise of hope |
| That never returned |
| Watched with a hawk’s trained eye |
| Trees grow silent fruit |
| 'neath a suffering sky |
| Those who have stayed, keep a flame |
| In memory of the fallen |
| And pass on the old rites despite the risk |
| But many more have left here |
| On mended broken wings |
| Turning to see your reaction |
| A tear drop fills your eye |
| But you protest not to give up as give in Heading straight for the wreckage |
| Picking up a shovel and a hoe |
| Start putting back the bricks one by one |
| Numbers come out of the woodwork |
| Curious to see the rebirth |
| Above the swollen clouds |
| A strange sound fills the air |
| A silence never heard |
| Falling like blessed rain |
| And the swallows return |