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I was raised in the years of the harvest |
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There were fields to the far horizon turning to the sun |
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I have killed more than I could eat |
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I live in a house filled with bones |
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But now the rain doesn't fall |
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And the wells are running brackish and dry |
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We stare out across the shrivelling fields |
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At the pitiless blue of the pitiless sky |
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Bad harvest is come, we're gathering dust |
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The scavenger birds are returning |
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La Muerte parades through the capital streets |
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Soon they'll be hunting for witches for the burning |
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I can hear in the far-off distance |
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The sound of the men making ready to come |
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I can hear them saddling horses |
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And the sound of the hounds howling scenting the kill in the air |
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I can taste fear on my tongue |
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I can feel fear in my heart |
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We'll be running and stumbling through the thick dark woods |
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Through the barren fields through the empty towns |
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Bad harvest is come and the wars they are lost |
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Whatever is left will be returning |
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La Muerte parades through the capital streets |
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Soon they'll be hunting for witches for the burning |
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Beneath the towering clouds of rusting red |
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As the sun bleeds into the horizon |
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The churches of the new gods are closing their doors |
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And the hard old gods are vengeance-bent on their returning |
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The gardens of the ruined towers glow with burning crosses |
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While the kings are in their counting houses |
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Counting out their losses |
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Trust to the stories, my love - it's what they are for |
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What's happening now has happened before |