stolen continent

The stolen continent, in the center of the map
Now that we have destroyed it, can we give it back?
You heft your bag, wish you could flag a taxi cab
It's not so, not so bad, but man, does it make you mad
We solved these problems all before, or so it had seemed
History's just a window glimpsed in a dimming screen
We whisper, never again, but there was so much of it
Will it chase your touch? Will it rise from the place your fingers split?
Crave isolation, tape each wintry window shut
And praise stagnation until your shook hands spill the cup
Can there ever be months or years of a blissful, safe routine
Or must we never let our sharp edges grow less keen?
Waste not, want not: desolate homelands fill each shelf
What you pay for, say, what you bought, may as well have done yourself
That apartment you can't afford is built on a pauper's grave
And your sleek new outfit reeks with the stitched-in sweat of slaves
How can you carve out rot when the tools you've got are smeared
With the blood on the hands that made them, marinaded for years
Where there is oxygen, there's fire, though it burns us slow
When every inch of soil is ash - tell me where we'll go
This is the old world now: not even the lies are new
All the truth I know is I don't know what I have got to do