| The plaza in the village
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| Where mission bells used to ring
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| Is now crumbled to a pile of stench and ruin
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| Even the swallows have vanished
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| No longer return every spring
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| All the blossoms are buried
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| 'neath the waste
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| Out of the shadows grow hatred
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| Along the corridor crawls fear
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| Crushed by the promise of hope
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| That never returned
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| Watched with a hawk’s trained eye
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| The trees grow silent fruit
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| 'neath a suffering sky
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| Those who have stayed, keep a flame
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| In memory of the fallen
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| And pass on the old rites despite the risk
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| But many more have left here
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| On mended broken wings
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| Turn to see your reaction
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| A tear drop fills your eye
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| But you protest not to give up or give in
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| Heading straight for the wreckage
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| Picking up a shovel and a hoe
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| Start putting back the bricks one by one
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| Numbers come out of the woodwork
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| Curious to see the rebirth
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| Above the swollen clouds
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| A strange sound fills the air
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| A silence never heard
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| Falling like blessed rain
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| And the swallows return
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| As the mission bells ring |