| Lords, can it be mistakes throughout the constant vows of the lost and gone,
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| blind and wrong
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| Inside a faith without a home, a fire that is cold, but grows so well,
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| who’s to tell?
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| About it all. |
| A nation cannot see, the hardestt part to take is not for me,
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| the dying trees.
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| This is what wars are made of Haunted
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| The readings cracked and grey and plagerized to date
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| Altered by the bastards of pure disguise of seas and skies
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| The pagan drums should wake
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| The sleeping of the fools to forget the churches language
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| Who’s the fool me or you?
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| The greatest mask of fate
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| The longest battle throught the text of great predictiors
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| For me and you, the old and new
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| This is what wars are made of |