| There was a country with centuries of suffering
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| He sang a song in the script of the scars
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| And the fertile land is a mulch of flesh
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| She gave birth to thoughts as trees
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| Until a hard wind blew over her
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| And he sowed the poisoned fruit into the soil
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| Great trees in the wake of the extinct
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| Goofs are born stumps
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| Whoever wants to - let him call it - boron the orchard
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| Cut trees at the crossroads
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| It will not change the simplest of truths:
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| This country is no longer there, dear ones
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| There is only wind, ruthless wind
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| Which suddenly wakes up in the middle of the night
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| And, like from under the ground - lets go into the world
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| Completely changed people
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| There was a country, there was a country
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| One - with a hand raised
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| He shoots Norwids blind
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| But so that sometimes God forbid!
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| Not to hit someone and not hurt
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| Wedett of the Workers' Sagas
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| She puts on a black patterned dress
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| Although for a government banquet
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| He drives a white Mercedes
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| Another hero of great moments
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| He introduces the classics to the service of power
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| And it honors the wallenrodic style
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| With an ambiguous expression - on two faces
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| Purpurate bends as much as possible
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| It is before the uniform, it is before God
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| Although it was already hanging among the faithful
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| Once a bishop who talked to the enemy!
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| There was a country, there was a country
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| In the background a swarm buzzes greedily
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| Commentators and writers
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| What a last thought will turn into dung
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| Only in thousands of copies
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| Because today it has to be like that!
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| Because they know what's up!
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| Because a thin thread must be protected!
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| The truth will be remembered!
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| An ineffable thought vanishes
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| And memory dies along with the body
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| About what he saw - speak and write!
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| - I didn't see anything, I forgot
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| So once again crowds of ghosts
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| The past will remind us of betrayals
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| Prudent again - dust like a shame
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| It will cover - empty - the bottom of the drawer
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| We were with them and among them
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| But everyone wakes up differently
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| This is a framed engraving for us
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| The old people are no longer there, dear ones
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| And for them - dear ones - there is no us
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| Sitting with a brewed beer
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| They will also tell a fairy tale
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| They will live happily ever after
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| There was a country, there was ... |