I swing the sickle while the dawn’s still grey,
The rows stretch endless, our backs start to sway,
They count our hours but never our pain,
We bend like wheat in the autumn rain.
Seeds we sow in their shining store,
Profit off labour we can’t ignore,
I pick the song from my calloused palm,
To tell the truth where the fields go calm.

We raise our voices in the dust and sand,
We write our stories with the harvest in hand,
Though no one listens when the rafters creak,
We’re living proof of the broken and meek.
This is our labour, this is our land,
We’ll make them hear with a guitar in hand.

They promise plenty in the company’s shade,
But we eat the crumbs that the contract made,
Our fathers’ sweat on this same red earth,
Their hopes and dreams given little worth.
I tune my guitar by the hay-baled sun,
Sing for the worker whose day is done,
My song is small but the echo grows,
In the barn-yard hush where the cold wind blows.

We raise our voices in the dust and sand,
We write our stories with the harvest in hand,
Though no one listens when the rafters creak,
We’re living proof of the broken and meek.
This is our labour, this is our land,
We’ll make them hear with a guitar in hand.

And if the board rooms never see our strain,
The fields remember every drop of rain,
The corn will rise and the pigs will feed,
But the harvest won’t free the ones we need.

We raise our voices in the dust and sand,
We write our stories with the harvest in hand,
Though no one listens when the rafters creak,
We’re living proof of the broken and meek.
This is our labour, this is our land,
We’ll make them hear with a guitar in hand.

Tonight I play for the ones who lie,
In rented shacks under factory sky,
We’ll fill the halls with our ragged chords,
Till justice knocks at their polished doors.
No gold can mend the broken promise made,
But a song can live when the debts are paid,
I raise this tune for the unseen crew,
For every hand the system withdrew.

We raise our voices in the dust and sand,
We write our stories with the harvest in hand,
Though no one listens when the rafters creak,
We’re living proof of the broken and meek.
This is our labour, this is our land,
We’ll make them hear with a guitar in hand.

Broken and meek

The entire sound is in my hands. I write cyber poetry, produce, and compose every track ready for Immersive 3D. Every beat is crafted for spatial and next-gen headphones.
Intimate lyrics, total immersion, every track.

For 30 years I kept unfinished demos to myself, never letting them out. Now I finish what I start and release it the moment it’s alive.

I use every tool available, human or machine, as an instrument.
Technology doesn’t replace creativity. It expands it.

Broken and meek

Terminalose