| Where the history of my land
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| Meets a spot of green surrounded by a shade of hazel
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| There, a faun plays with the air,
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| The magic of the mountain,
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| He told me that he tastes
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| The sweet and sour taste
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| Of the rainy clouds a-coming
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| And he told me not to be too sad when the storm comes.
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| Life is frail, it’s a creature to protect, he said,
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| In your hands,
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| Like a pair of wings made out of dreams.
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| He, he was a butterfly raiser,
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| And he’s running with his hair in the wings
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| To finally be back home,
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| Yeah he, he was a butterfly raiser,
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| And we’re running through the fields,
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| Through the centuries and the years.
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| No, no matter all the pain,
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| The struggle deep inside
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| And people saying you can’t make it coz,
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| One day you’ll spread your wings
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| And then you’ll fly away.
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| Life is frail, it’s a creature to protect, he said,
|
| In your hands,
|
| Like a pair of wings made out of dreams.
|
| He, he was a butterfly raiser,
|
| And he’s running with his hair in the wings
|
| To finally be back home,
|
| Yeah he, he was a butterfly raiser,
|
| And we’re running through the fields,
|
| Through the centuries and the years.
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| (Butterfly raiser)
|
| He, he was a butterfly raiser,
|
| And he’s running with his hair in the wings
|
| To finally be back home,
|
| Yeah he, he was a butterfly raiser,
|
| And we’re running through the fields,
|
| Through the centuries and the years. |