Lyrics:

(Greg Graffin)
The brown and orange sky holds it's breath
as the sun retreats to the distant horizon
And our hearts palpitate anxiously as we
soon will lay supine,
and wait for sleep to overcome us
And from somewhere in our black
subconscious minds when we're asleep
Comes a haunting swelling mass of voices, resonating
It's screams of forgotten victums and the cries of innocence
And the desperate plea for recogintion and recompense
Tiny voices, echoes of our heritage
Our long and sallow faces turn the other way
Tiny voices, harbored deep within
as we outwardly deny that they have something to say
and if we don't confront them
they will never go away
The billions of tiny pinhole embers fade into a
morning sky filled with poignant morose wonder
Waking we bear a cosmetic peace that
verifies the turmoil which we carry deep inside
Tiny voices, echoes of our heritage
Our long and sallow faces turn the other way
Tiny voices, harbored deep within
as we outwardly deny that they have something to say
and if we don't confront them
they will never go away