DJ. Loyd

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Vanni Our Land

VT. P flu got;
no antibiotic we sought!
though oxygen goes to drought;
we don't have other thought.
our land only that we want.
caused by our blood-stain
it seems like crimson
crossed chest-vain
it seems like god's son.
We,
matter of soul-
never die phenix.
hotter than sun-
to die feel it.
we do violence;
but only for
freedom and silence.

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