| I’ve seen a thousand people kneel in silence
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| And I’ve seen them face the rifles with their songs
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| I always thought that we could end the killing
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| But now I live in fear that I was wrong
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| The killer and the cynic waltz together
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| Their eyes are turned into their skulls
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| They do not feel the bullets in the bodies
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| They do not hear the dolphins or the gulls
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| If we do these things in the greenwood
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| What will happen in the dry?
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| If we don’t stop there’ll come a time when women
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| With barren wombs will bitterly rejoice
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| With breasts that dry and never fill with promise
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| Gladly they’ll not suckle one more life
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| Is this then the whimper and the ending?
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| The impotence of people raised on fear
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| A fear that blinds the sense of common oneness
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| Common love and life or death are here
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| If we do these things in the greenwood
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| What will happen in the dry?
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| Will no one light the candle in the darkness
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| Will no one be my guide, not let me fall
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| I’ve lost the sense that tells me where the path is
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| I feel the chill of winter in my soul
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| There’s no way I can say the words more plainly
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| There’s no one left to point at anymore
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| It’s you and me and we must make the choice now
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| And not destroy the life we’re living for
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| If we do these things in the greenwood
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| What will happen in the dry?
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| If we do these things in the greenwood
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| What will happen in the dry? |