| We came offering our souls.
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| In search of light it’s easy to find shadows.
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| At first all was clear as night.
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| But this would prove to fade.
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| As we pressed on deeper still,
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| We found the land you sold as golden meadows.
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| A blight ridden ashen ground
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| And there we killed the truth.
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| Then compassion died too.
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| I know my death has a face.
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| It is an image of you,
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| And you’re plentiful.
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| There we would build our mounds.
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| On these scared cold plains,
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| where dawn had turned to ashes.
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| Amongst men with empty eyes
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| Grace can’t be distinguished.
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| In our quest for light
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| We would advance and leave our wake in tatters.
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| Just like death on a rampant ride
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| On our zealous quest for you.
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| There hung a rag for our wounds at the end of the line.
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| It meant death to go back;
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| It was a crime of the mind.
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| When that whistle blew it was once more our time,
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| to show our spirits were primed and our bodies were ripe.
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| On the day we killed the truth
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| And compassion died too.
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| My death is an image of you
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| In its grandeur and grace;
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| Divine, appalling! |