| You would trade the moss of our hometowns
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| For a kingdom of grain
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| You tried to spit it out on your way south
|
| But it still sticks to the roof of your mouth
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| You’ve had them drag you off by the hair
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| You had them wait for you over there
|
| Behind the towers — behind the flowers
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| On anger’s white throne
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| But I don’t care for your milk and honey
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| Nor do I wish to be wrapped up
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| In the silence of money
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| Me who cared for flour and oil
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| Who cared for blood-drenched soil
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| And slept the sleep of apples and gold
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| As in the stories of old
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| And I don’t care for your grass-given grief
|
| For your pain’s left me locked in disbelief
|
| Among the towers — among the flowers
|
| On anger’s white throne
|
| And what strange sheep we are
|
| With the wool pulled over our eyes
|
| And what strange fruit we bare
|
| When we’re stuffed with hatred and lies
|
| Despite my silence and my attempts at reserve
|
| You pushed me to smother
|
| You pushed me to serve
|
| They ought to be warned
|
| Against your poetry and charm
|
| They ought to be warned against you
|
| Now finish this harvest
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| And sprinkle my boots with your wine
|
| Now that our fears are whistling in flocks
|
| In the dust and sobs of time
|
| Around the towers — around the flowers
|
| On anger’s white throne
|
| Among the towers — in the orchards of rome
|
| Come closer, come closer still |