| Hey, do you know where you’re going?
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| Have you noticed its snowing,
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| Although it is June?
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| They, said your weakness was growing,
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| That your rapture was showing,
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| Just a little too soon.
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| But under these mountains,
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| The nights and the shadows grow long.
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| The stars up above you feel wrong.
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| This is not your sky.
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| Pray, to a strange constellation.
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| Thank God for your isolation,
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| This forever goodbye.
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| Dawn, throws its light on the covers.
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| In this bed there’s another,
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| Asleep at your side.
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| Gone, the embrace of a lover,
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| And the fire you discovered,
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| Already has died.
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| Her body recoils,
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| As your hand goes to touch her again.
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| She’s a temple that won’t let you in.
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| At her side you’re alone.
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| On her back is the same constellation,
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| Confirming your alienation.
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| No this flesh is not home.
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| You, carry a vague conviction,
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| This life rose from an eviction,
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| Out of your homeland.
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| True, but it’s also addiction,
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| To this soft crucifixion,
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| Under these foreign hands.
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| And like all Christs before you,
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| You kneel down beneath the night sky,
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| To look into your father’s eyes,
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| And only feel lost.
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| Crucified to a strange constellation,
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| A new king awaits coronation,
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| But there will be no great revelation,
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| Your journey is your destination,
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| And discomfort could be your salvation,
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| Here, under the Southern Cross. |