letra de a nation of immigrants - wayfarer [colorado, us]
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dust storm is clearing, the old familiar dream
i wave my seeing hand, asleep again on haunted land
rode in on iron horses, their hooves that crack the ground
we water them in creeks of blood; no richer oil have we found. hear the ghosts of the west – they burn them traincars down
as peddlers we trade in death;
blood and gunpowder for a crooked crown
a nation, on no man’s land;
no nation, on graves will stand
a nation, will be thy end
no nation, for cursed men
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