Bandaged wounds bleed, though out of sight.
A dying lung breathes: despite all its plights.
And just like the rain: we'll soften the ground.
With our marching refrain; with our voices unbound.
Shadows will fall as the sun sets,
the chips will then fall upon the hedge bets.
Roads are not...roads are not...
concrete! Concrete!
-our roads are of bones!-
Defeat! Defeat!-
we cower in homes;
oh, we cower alone.
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