| a small quiet place, in the gomel region,
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| good-hearted people gathered round
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| on one fine spring morning, in narovlya,
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| a ghostly dust engulfed the town
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| as the children played, I’ll remember that day
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| as the music played for the rest of my life
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| ii) may day
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| it’s the first day of may and all of our childeren
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| have gone out to play, it’s our celebration,
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| it’s tradition, for us all
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| our flags and our banners hang over our doors,
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| in the pripyat we’re swimming,
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| sunbathers sleep on while around us metals fall
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| town bosses said it was safe, don’t panic their plea
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| but rumours they quickly spread that all was not well
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| who could tell?
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| fallout you don’t see
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| iii) evacuation
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| the 6th of may one morning
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| we were summoned to the school
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| our children must be moved away,
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| for how long, nobody knew
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| we told each house throughout the night,
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| the town it didn’t sleep
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| mothers, fathers, all were weeping
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| as they watched their children leave
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| iv) emptiness
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| helpless we stand, united in grief
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| dazed and confused, we cry out in disbelief
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| our lands now destroyed, we look towards the skies
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| with outstretched hands we try to grasp the lies,
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| and through it all… we were never told the truth
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| cruel that you are, we have no time for hate
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| fools that you are, from the comfort of your state
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| what became of our beloved Belarus?
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| what’s become of our own flesh and blood?
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| what’s to become of those you left behind?
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| what right did you have to leave us here to die?
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| and through it all… we never knew the truth…
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| v) clean up
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| september came upon us, white soldiers they appeared
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| washing down our houses, all surface soil was cleared
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| we watched from open windows as they wore respirators here
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| they covered our grounds in asphalt removing every tree in fear
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| no picking mushrooms, the forest was out of bounds
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| no fishing in the rivers, contamination all around
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| and though the sun was shining there was danger everywhere
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| as lorries moved our people, our hearts would always be there
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| (until we meet again — my home Narovlya)
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| vi) epilogue
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| although we’ve resettled I re-live those years,
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| I dream of my home town but cannot hold back all those fears,
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| all of those tears
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| what price do our children truly pay in the end?
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| do they have a future?
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| I hope in my sorrow their scars will heal, their hearts will mend |