| An old bearded oak of a man in the street yells
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| «A storm is coming soon»
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| The weather man says it will never rain again
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| By their own respective philosophies, one of them’s just a body
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| Reading teleprompts in two-piece suits
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| One of them is too strange and splendid for any to comprehend
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| I feel something’s coming for me
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| Is this death or glory that hangs like lightning in the air?
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| It’s been years of barren skies
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| But I see dark horizons draped like night beyond this glare
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| Out there at the edge of town, where the wind whips up
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| Whispering my name
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| I walk the streets of this withered and wicked land
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| My shadow darkens the door of a place I ain’t been before
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| But I shamble off in shame
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| Throwing rocks at the rooks with these brittle and broken hands
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| I feel something’s coming for me
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| Is this death or glory that hangs like lightning in the air?
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| It’s been years of barren skies
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| But I see dark horizons draped like night beyond this glare
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| I swear I feel the rain in my bones, and I
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| Imagine thunder shattering stones, playing «Crack the Sky»
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| I was scared I might be lost in the flood but now
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| I see more than that, I’m just longing for love in this land so dry
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| In the dark of the night I woke with a start, and I
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| Stared across the room
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| But all I saw was this dream burned across my brain
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| From here to the ocean there was a field of roses, and I
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| Watched them burst and bloom
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| I saw them wither and fade but revive
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| When they felt the rain start to fall
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| I feel something’s coming for me
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| Is this death or glory that hangs like lightning in the air?
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| It’s been years of barren skies
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| But I see dark horizons draped like night beyond this glare |