Its roots nourished by forlorn crimson,
Hard to tell whether setting sun
or dying son, the image set,
Induced by the blind man’s tension
Our world has grown up
Built upon these values
Its Branches playing hangman,
We know the death we’re built on
But we ignore it like the dirt
A woe for the mad headsman,
The one who must see it all
See the heads roll
The Children playing on gallows hill,
Desensitized from all of it
The death as normal as life
Innocence where men would kill,
Innocence lost so long ago
When kids have grown up
Kids now men so quickly
Its sap filled with tears of gold,
The hearts of children now so old
And this world will grow cold
A deal for the lives sold



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