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[–] 16 points 2 years ago*

A mass of hands press on the market window

Ghosts of progress, dressed in slow death

Feeding on hunger and glaring through the promise

Upon the food that rots slowly in the aisle

A mass of nameless at the oasis

That hides the graves beneath the master's hill

Are buried for drinking the rivers water while

Shackled to the the line at the empty well

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