| And under the bruised, black sky
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| Blanketed by stars
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| Serving light like murals held high above the ant hill we call earth
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| It’s where we sang songs about destroying the art of song
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| It’s where we burn books in protest of arson
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| In protest of destruction
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| The beating of humanoid hearts
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| Quantized to a clicking mouse
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| Its rhythm building walls around itself
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| Soundproof and with no proof of life and no signs of death
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| What we have been searching for had been written in the banks of the leaves
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| And the the dirt we had spent a lifetime trying to wash away
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| Was the God we had tried so hard to put a face to |