Uneasy heart left to run, Cold waters frighten thee. The soul has gone from here; It's already at the bottom of the sea. Foreign minds clash with Ancient, rooted lies. Fear in your tainted eyes As rain falls from the skies. The weary traveller isn't welcome here: A bad smell lingers whenever they are near And you say, with scurrilous tongue, they are of hell. But you need two hands to lift foul water from that well. So proud of this land. But your hand is not the one left in the crafted sand. Blood runs in the pipes underground Without a word, without a sound. Fear of your own blood. Fate carve in shallow mud Which is wept away by the oncoming waves Christened with a setting sun on its way to the grave.

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