| Each day he finds his way to the graveyard
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| Without flowers, without prayers
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| For hours he sits there on the floor
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| By the people lying there
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| He doesn’t know any name
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| Written in the cold stones
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| He spells each of them tenderly
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| Looks forward to be one of them
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| He’s a prisoner in his own world
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| Doesn’t take the challenge to break out
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| Poor prisoner in your own world
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| Is there nothing you can smile about?
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| Poor prisoner in your own world
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| Each day he leads his car to his office
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| Without thinking, without dreaming
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| He nods to everyone
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| Without even looking at them
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| He doesn’t know any face
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| Belonging to those name-plates
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| Ignores each of them naturally
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| Refusing to be one of them
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| He’s a prisoner in his own world
|
| Doesn’t take the challenge to break out
|
| Poor prisoner in your own world
|
| Is there nothing you can smile about?
|
| Poor prisoner in your own world |