In the rubble of a bombsite cries a man who is afraid;
his young wife and child went missing when the bird fell from the sky;
and his neighbours come a-running from the homes that can’t be saved.
This man is digging with his fingers for the little girl he made,
desperation in his shouting that the bird took her away.
In the rubble of a bombsite cries a man who is afraid.
There are tears across his country, but the grit is in his eye.
He is calling for his baby, but his throat is raw and dry;
and his neighbours come a-running from the lives that can’t be saved.
So many lonely people left by loved ones swept away,
by the restless wings of predators who fall upon their prey.
In the rubble of a bombsite cries a man who is afraid,
but who falls upon the ground to dig his future from its grave;
and a miracle is lifted and is held up to the sky,
and his neighbours come a-running to a life that can be saved.
And a cursing and a wailing fill the hole that has been made
by intangible corruption in the shape of many graves.
In the rubble of a bombsite cries a man who is afraid;
and his neighbours wipe the rubble from the tiny life they saved.
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