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Fields of amber, yellow, gold.
The fields I see when feeling old.
I feel the anger and feel the cold.
I feel I do not what I'm told.
The answers kiss my very lips;
They hide beneath my finger tips.
An empty casket gently flips,
As mother nature shakes her hips.
Another born to die and rot,
In some high Gods new thickened plot.
The rulers rule and mark their trot;
And babies drown them from their cot.
A mothers love can never fade;
And still I fall in love with trade.
I have no need for fights and raid;
May riots come and right what's made.