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Sleep now, your blood moving in the quiet wind |
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No longer afraid for the others |
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Hurrying through the tall grass |
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Or the faces laughing on the beach, sleep now |
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You do not hear the dry wind pray |
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Or the children play a game called soldiers |
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Sleep now, alone in the sleeves of grief |
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Listening to clothes falling |
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And your flesh touching god |
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To the chatter and backslapping of christ meeting the Heroes of war |
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Sleep now, you do not hear the dry wind pray |
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Or the children play a game called soldiers |
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Sleep now, your words have passed the lights shining from The east |
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And the sound of flak raping graves and emptying the seasons |
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Sleep now, sleep now |
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You do not hear the dry wind pray |
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Or the children play a game called soldiers |