| Ragged and rough in those sepia pages
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| Tear-streaked and fearful, alone
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| They were caught in the casual flash of the camera
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| A number, a name, do you know where they’ve gone?
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| They came with the faces of innocents
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| And they left with the bodies of men
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| They were out on the run
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| They were fleeing the wrath of the rain
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| Deadbeat with drifting, they scrambled ashore
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| And they ran from the spell of the sea
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| And they looked to tire past and drank to the future
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| And knew in their hearts it was never to be
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| Now some of them came from the stony lands
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| And some from the paths of the plain;
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| But every man was fleeing the wrath of the rain
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| Where have they gone to, those faded faces
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| Those fierce mustachioed men?
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| The women and boys and their tattered belongings
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| What has become of the loss and the pain?
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| I see them today on the streets of the city
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| We nod to each other again;
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| And I stand in their doorways to shelter
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| Awhile from the rain |