| And the gulls are coming in off the coast
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| The smell of corpses pulls them in
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| Mass graves uncovered, must be abroad — it can’t be here
|
| I can sense your violence, but I still don’t understand
|
| How when the past looks dead and you’ve got the future
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| In the palm of your hand
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| Run quick through (noble?) streets
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| Where killers hide
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| Our fruits get bricks in windows
|
| And foreigners get hushed-up trials
|
| And you’re waiting for a knock at the door
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| Which would tell you if you spent the next few years
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| Free from life attacked by petrol bombs
|
| The price of bread went up five pence today
|
| And an immigrant was kicked to death again
|
| And I’m scared for my life for the first time in it
|
| And we’ve known all along that a home can put your life at risk
|
| So I guess we’ll just disperse again
|
| And the crows are coming off the land
|
| The easy targets lure them in
|
| Don’t be absurd, it can’t be here
|
| Until we find a place to settle
|
| We’ll just keep moving on
|
| We stay in flocks like birds, no one dares to move along
|
| Across a sea of bleached skulls
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| Chased by death in all its forms
|
| Over mountains, under suns
|
| We shoot to kill, yet shoot for fun
|
| Across a desert’s burning skies, we never stop to sleep and eat
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| Death always finds us in the end, its very shadows weeping
|
| Over hot hamlets and plains, a killer wants to see us slain
|
| Over fields of wheat and grain, through the endless, pouring rain
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| Why can we never find a safe place to land?
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| When we find ourselves through God’s providing hand
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| At the close of every day |