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...the book of poetry dies often
I fight and there we go again,
but I cannot replace what it once said,
if it had not been for what he said...

There is the time when we were in the woods
and there was a fire
It was not his fault, but the burn
was deep in the Earth
We laughed then, before the fire
We laughed 
but then there was the fire
I had not known then how difficult it would be
and my voice is empty of the crime

We are not murderers

I call him and there is no answer,
there is never enough of a dream for it to be true,
when the power of manifestation
relies solely on belief in oneself

Our arms are empty and we wonder
will it forever be this way

I believe the future might bring more
than what I see
but this is belief

I have done nothing wrong

Why were they condemned
why are they condemned
the destructive force binds us
our animal heritage
our own personal linear distinction
of refuge from sacrifice

We know nothing else...
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