| Where are the bones and the flowers?
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| Where are the shrines to the local gods?
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| They never write now or ring us
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| Whatever happened to the local gods?
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| What are their names? |
| Where do they live now?
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| Where do we go to light a candle to them now?
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| They held the soul of the city
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| The streets were bright with the local gods
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| The days were sweet with their meanings
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| The nights were vivid with the local gods
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| The day they left we never saw their going
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| We woke one morning and the world was less than it had been
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| In the canals and the wastelands
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| Up in the spires, under the flyovers
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| Still you can see, with the right eyes
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| The shining presence of the local gods
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| Stand in the silence you can hear them whisper
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| Hearing their laughter echo in the steel and stone
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| So leave a fire in the window
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| Pour the wine under the underpass
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| Let’s all go down to the river
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| We’ll go swimming with the local gods
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| They never died we only lost their number
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| All you can find here worship and more will appear |