| «Aren't you?»
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| «Uhh…»
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| «No?»
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| «I don’t know»
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| Nails and grenades
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| But I’m under interrogation?
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| Report through the hole
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| Left where the trees and halberds once stood
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| Taller then eye contact
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| And years turn to dust left behind
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| With bark and other remnants of something that used to be alive
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| Old forests like cemeteries
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| With stumps for headstones
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| And the birds are left to be built over
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| A dated idea to be alive
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| Like old electronics
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| Still used but archaic
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| A house to keep the insides in
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| To protect it from everything else
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| As if they’re not even there, function lost
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| Like not being able to find the handle to a broken coffee cup
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| Brown stains around the lip that can’t be cleaned
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| Now useless in a wastebasket
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| Identity #1
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| Where do the birds go? |
| Where do the birds go?
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| Where do the birds go? |
| Where do the birds go?
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| Crushed on interstates
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| By the progress of a world
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| Of trucks and other developments
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| Or kept inside
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| Protected by the serenity of a birdcage
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| Unaware of the powers that their grandparents built
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| The trees that they once lived in, we now live in
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| The trees that they once lived in, we now live in
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| One birdcage to another
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| Safety in a non-touchable place
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| To those wings that know freedom
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| A dirt home and their excuse not to die
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| Bird sanctuary, a refuge for wildlife
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| Where predators are controlled
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| And hunting is not allowed
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| No more fear
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| Seeing only the serenity of being alive
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| Unaware, unaware, unaware
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| Unaware of any other aspects of the world they are isolated from
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| Kept under the table like a villain in a scary movie
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| Removed until the mystery is over
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| Then crushed and defiled like crushed carnations in a diary
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| Work from history
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| Cancer from a different disease
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| As unaccepted as an empty lot in a growing subdivision
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| Feel everything
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| And remove the beauty of simplicity
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| It’s easy to be alive but being alive
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| Really alive
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| Means freedom on a different level
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| High or low is irrelevant, it’s both
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| Look at everything
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| To absorb everything
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| Attempting to understand everything
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| From carnations to dead birds |