Barra Skies - A Song for Modern Remembrence - TOWER OF LIES

A Song for Modern Remembrance

This is not your grandfather’s war ballad.

Set against the haunting backdrop of the Hebridean isles and carried by raw folk instrumentation, “A Tower of Lies” is Barra Skies’ fierce lament for a generation betrayed. Blending poetry, protest, and prayer, this track tears away the pageantry of modern remembrance and confronts the uncomfortable truths beneath it.

From pixel poppies and hashtag grief to political hypocrisy and hollow rituals, the lyrics cry out against sanitised suffering and the recurring cycle of sacrifice — not for peace, but for profit. It’s a voice from the mud, the margin, and the memory: a voice that refuses to be tokenised, used, or forgotten.

This is a soldier’s ghost that doesn’t haunt, but howls.

A Highland cenotaph goes up in flames. A nation plays brass in the background while the next war queues in the wings. And still the question burns: Will you remember? Or will you repeat it all again?

🕯 Featured Themes:

• Anti-war reflection
• Scottish folk protest tradition
• The erosion of public memory
• The cost of propaganda and politicised remembrance
• A call to honest mourning and active resistance

🔔 This track is part of our upcoming collection “Songs Beneath the Barra Skies” — a cycle of modern laments, folk ballads, and protest hymns grounded in the grit of Scottish soul and sky.

🎧 Listen, reflect, share. And when the drums start again — don’t forget what we sang.

💬 “Don’t put my name on a tower of sighs,
 where young folks were slaughtered for old rich men’s lies.”

[Verse 1]
Don’t put my name on a tower of sighs,
where young folks were slaughtered
for old rich men’s lies.
Don’t carve it neat in your marble and steel —
no stone for heroes can sanctify this dread deal.
[Verse 2]
Don’t put my name on your daylight’s mean screen,
your pixel poppies, your “never again” meme.
You grieve in fake filters, hashtags, and trends,
while the next war readies, just round our bends.
[Verse 3]
Don’t put my name in your Sunday parade,
where brass bands wail for the debts left unpaid.
The drums still beat, the orders still fly —
we still march in circles while more young boys die.
[Verse 4]
Faux-grieving suits and plastic tears,
selling peace with souvenir beers.
Who will provide for me and for mine,
when they drag me from the streets
and force me to the line?
[Verse 5]
Don’t put my name beneath all your dread drones,
y