What Are The Evils Done In My Name Poem by Alfred Barna

Matters not, black, or white, red, or brown
Who are these provocateurs roaming all around?
Indeed, men are not born into a cult of skin
History is very long, but where to begin

Divide and conquer to label, corral, and to loll
They hope our fingers don't point out their plan
They build bunkers while society gleefully spall
Indeed, red, and viscous the stain on my hand

The guilt is transferred by association, place, or family crest
Into which we are easily marked as insane
The rulers use these very tools, at their behest
What are the evils that are done in my name?

Provocateurs have their safe places reserved for them
While lay dead in streets, the valley, the glen
All innocents are pawns within their eyes
They cover their ears to muffle the cries

Children look upon me, see my hands full of blood
Much like man had done in times that were before
Then the issue was raised and behold come the flood.
Deluded men of upper levels have become as Watchers of yore.

For lucre traveling the world and pulling schemes
Smearing some faction, putting to shame
Polluting the common man taking his dreams
What are the evils that are done in my name?

Finding many ways to find me at fault
Pleading you pick a side, as they hide in a vault
No longer are there innocent, or so we have been told
So, quote the men who hoard all the gold

They will make you Hamas, Right or Left wing
Whatever they need to put you within crosshair
If you practice your faith all the better to bring
The bombs that will fall and the fires that will sear

Show me the man, and a crime can be drawn
Allowing secret armies to be given your maim
Hunting us down, with derision and with scorn
What are the evils that are done in my name?

Like Julian Assange languishing in prison, we are pent
Inside prison camps off we will be sent
Oh, the pride of those who seek more and ever more
No matter how much people pay for their score

Soon they will have a solution that they always find
Eliminating any resistance to their power, so they can rule
Hoping to pull the wool over the world, keep it blind
They hope we are jesters not to think, and dance as their fool

Yet nothing remains hidden, nothing remains interred
Always the ghosts come to roost upon bedsteads bane
All the crimes of theirs we cried out to be heard
What are the evils that are done in my name?