| I awoke in the summer
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| The sun struck the earth to furnish us with fire
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| But jealous hands fashioned their cross to a sword
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| Brandished their gift as a torch to burn the light
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| «To the dead, we owe only the truth»
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| The human condition
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| Surveying the space between the nave, I saw my own infernal grave
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| Existential imperfections
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| We sat scrawling out prayers on scratched oak chairs
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| Bullets bouncing off stonewall saints, laid to rest by our Forebear
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| At their children, at the dissidence of despair
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| This proximal milieu could close the door to the
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| Closeness that keeps us inside the spaces that we hide
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| My heart burns cold as life, leaves my daughter’s eyes
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| I am the mother of the dying, the dust, the denouement
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| How can absence take my father’s house?
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| How can nothing take my daughter’s life?
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| Walk me out from this tomb
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| If you are the gate, could you make a way?
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| Come down from that cross
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| Hold out your hands so I can see
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| Je suis sorti vivant du four crématoire
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| Je suis le témoin sacré de l'église
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| Je suis une mère qui a tout perdu
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| This fire burns your name on my lips
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| And this smoke chokes your song on my throat
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| Now let death lynch my lungs
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| I offer what’s left of this withering tongue
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| But oh, «No Exit «So bright as the light that shines behind the Son
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| I leaped through stained glass saints
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| To fall to the garden where we first began |