Crows and Locusts

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It was the year the crows and the locusts came, the fields drained dry the rain; the fields are bleeding.

“Daddy don’t cry, it’ll be alright”
She puts some water on the wound and hums a little tune  while her courage puddles on the ground: Pooling, pooling.

See the murder and the swarm descend. And the night is getting thick, the moon telling her tricks  – she’d betray her every time.

It was the year the crows and the locusts came, the fields drained dry the rain. The fields are bleeding.
It was the age the foxes came for the fields. We were bleeding as we bowed to kneel and prayed for mercy. We prayed for mercy.

The rumble is low and the heat is high, got a feeling that there’s rain out in the oil black sky.
Gonna chase away the devil when that sun does rise.
Gonna plead the Blood.
Gonna plead the Blood.

She limps on up to the top of a mount, looks at the faltered harvest.
Feels her sweat in the ground and the burn in her nose, and the knowing in her guts:
Something’s still gonna grow.
She ain’t leaving ’till it does.

(What can wash away my sin? Nothing but the Blood.
What can make me whole again.? Nothing but the Blood.)

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