Counsellors have been deployed
Grief centers opened
Chiefs of police want us to know
Blood has a smell
From the mountains to the praries
To the oceans white with foam
Most evenings in these green hills
Rifle fire tears through the vales
Semi-automatic but normal
Just local boys in open fields
Stand beside us and guide us
Land that I love
Too sparsely populated here
For anything en masse today
And only the usual number
Of people are dying.
