That singing is piercing our ears, beat them down so they'll never sing again.
But, sir, then they'll be melancholy and the sun will only burn their broken eyes, the world crushing down on them with each step, those charred eyes hollow and empty like cinders and their children dead before they're in their mother's womb.
But how they pierce my ears, servant. Have pity on me.
They are my people sir, I cannot.