| All the many corpses begin to speak
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| What ignorance is cannot be argued over anymore
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| It is too late for pleading white picket dreams
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| Print you off, the shemps, the world is shrinking
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| Rooted in a trivial concern, in interconnectedness
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| In the need to make face and keep up
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| And drown out the many voices within
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| Imagine a culture that has, at its root
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| A more soulful connection to land and to loved ones
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| But I can hear the lie before you speak
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| There is nothing but progress to eat
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| And we are so fat and so hungry
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| And the black wrists are cuffed in the pig van
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| While the white shirt and tie in the tube car, distractional picture
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| Pictures of beer and guilt about urges
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| Sexual distrust and abandoned to nothingness
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| Give me something I can nail myself to
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| Give me a sharply-dressed talking head
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| Who has something about them I trust and despise
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| And what of it, anyway? |
| These windows don't open
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| They were designed to stay closed
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| Shower, smoothie, coffee, commute
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| Check the internet, never stop, never stop
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| There is a scar on the soul of the world and it needs you to look
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| The blood of the past is here, it remains
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| The blood of the murders, the bodies like sacks leaking brain
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| All stacked, chest aback on the planes, it remains
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| To acknowledge without guilt, to accept without condition
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| And to listen when other people tell you how you have behaved
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| Truth is, it's for us to feel and be moved
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| But I hear the clatter of bone against steel, it is coming
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| It will not be stilled, it is there
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| In the air, scorched white
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| The reflection of sunlight on glass bouncing back into sunlight
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| And glass bouncing back, industrialized
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| Denial, business as usual
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| So roll your eyes, shake your head, turn away and call me names
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| I'm okay with that, too proud
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| Unable to listen, we keep speaking
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| Moted by blood, unable to notice ourselves
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| Unable to stop and unwilling to learn |