| Waiting on an elevator — in a hotel out in California
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| Smog clouds up in the windows — but there is a plaque up on the wall
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| That tells of the Agoras — people who were here long before us
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| Before the covered wagons — before they lost it all
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| They were hunters — they were fishermen und they often fought each other
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| But one small tribe was different — their leader was a peaceful man
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| They were weavers — they were painters — trading pelts for pretty colours
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| Protected by the warriors for the beauty in their hands
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| Roll back the years — roll back the years — to the river of tears
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| The chief he had a daughter — she was young and she was beautiful
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| He said, «Go into the forest — get some berries for the dye
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| But make your way back quickly — for the old bear’s getting hungry
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| I don’t want you out there — when the sun falls from the sky»
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| Her basket filled with berries — she headed back toward the village
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| When a mighty roar erupted — she ran und hid inside a hollow tree
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| Shadows were getting longer — the forest was getting colder
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| And the chief began to panic — where could his daughter be?
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| Lost in the years — lost in the years — on the river of tears
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| In the camp the fires were dying when the old chief started crying
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| Soon all the tribe were crying — the ground grew wet beneath their feet
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| And the tears they turned to water and the water became a river
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| And the river flowed like an arrow — to the foot of a hollow tree
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| And the girl looked out in wonder — as she saw the water falling
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| She knew it was her father and she swam to his canoe
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| And all the tribe stopped crying — and the river started subsiding
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| Into the hill of the Agoras — and so the legend grew
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| Roll back the years — roll back the years
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| Roll back the years — to the river of tears
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| I wish all the world was healing |