| Chances are we are the same;
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| Against the odds, against the grain
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| We lean, like gardens toward light,
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| But we wait, like evening for night,
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| Don’t we?
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| Chances are we are alike;
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| Against what better judgement writes
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| We ache like children for love,
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| For a purpose worthy of Such a noble aim,
|
| Such a noble aim,
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| Such a noble aim as love.
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| Chances are we bruise the same;
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| A family tree desperate for rain.
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| A thirst only deserts know best.
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| A hurt so at home in our chests.
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| Call it stubbornness or bravery,
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| To let our branches continue to reach,
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| With such a noble aim,
|
| With such a noble aim,
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| With such a noble aim as love.
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| Every broken branch and loosened leaf
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| That we’ve grown to ignore,
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| Is now a part of something greater than before.
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| Every nest that rests upon our limbs,
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| Seeking shelter from the storms,
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| Is a purpose worth being broken for.
|
| Chances are we are the same;
|
| Against the odds, against the grain
|
| We lean, like gardens toward light.
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| We reach with all of our might
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| For such a noble aim as love. |