| Upon a hill, above a town
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| A young girl sits, her head bowed down
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| Asking «when will it cease, this troubled time?»
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| And leave her land in peace
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| And in the spring, before their power
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| Into hear hair she weaves the flowers
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| And with open hand, she walks her land
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| Her destiny to find
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| It is arranged, the plans are set
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| Into a warring clan she’s wed
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| She’s a human bridge to stop the flow
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| Of blood upon their fields
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| With summer sun, she wears a crown
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| Her maidens dress now a foreign gown
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| And it’s her body she lays down
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| She’s a weaver of peace
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| But war returns, again and again
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| One battle claims her family’s men
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| Sons, husband, brothers, father, all
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| To each other swords they fall
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| With autumn wind upon the pyre
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| She weaves their arms before the fire
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| To set them free her sole desire
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| She’s a weaver of peace
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| And with the snow she takes her leave
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| To heal herself she sits to weave
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| A tapestry her tale to tell
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| And give her grief to time
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| Her long hair shorn as golden thread
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| She weaves a story of her dead
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| That those who see may choose peace instead
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| She’s a weaver of peace |