My ancestors have all passed away I'm lonely and lost in our past of gray I've inherited a thousand acres of marshlands Thoughts just as crushing as my harsh hands Sad as the rainy wind of late November My pale fire burning without no ember The curse of my family is in the blood I keep walking my swamps, stuck in the mud Walking the footsteps of generations of hurt Come down and see my own nations of dirt And when I finally drown in the mire Witness these wetlands catch fire