Pressed to glass, like fine China,

A face I thought at once I knew,

The wonder years are all behind her,

Ripped apart and birthed anew.


All the cruel in all the world,

Has kissed this face I thought I knew;

Stole the light that lived inside her,

Consecrated lies-made-true.


Like naught, that face is now replaced,

With some cyanic, neon hue.

The grave makes way for block foundations,

Of a generation set askew,


This poem is about: 
My country


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