What is this strange place?
  Where cold and stagnant winds of the past
  meet fresher breezes of the present. 
  Embracing in such violent beauty.
  This stormy realm where histories change
  in time with the heartbeats 
  of those who thought themselves weak
  but found themselves strong.

  Blood rains down on me here,
  trickling into a hard Earth
  to irrigate seeds of history.
  I hear cries of hatred from the darkness,
  screams of horror 
  mixed with shouts of victory.
  And I see King Louis's lonely head
  gawking at it's decapitated body,
  from the bloody hand of a drunken peasant.
  I feel the righteousness of the Soviets 
  standing over the body of the czar
  and the power of the citizens
  standing over the tanks of the Soviets.
  I sense both the goods and evils of evolution here,
  struggling for control of the dice.

  And I see America.
  Writhing in the bloody dirt,
  weakening beneath the heavy boots
  of the politicians who conquered her.
  She was born here,
  in this dark, birthplace of revolution.
  She was born here for me.
  Will she now die here for them?