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The crowds sang her fate 50 philosophers, she converted- But not one, would share her estate She stood, keeping her eyes on God  
He.He never does.He never gives it to her.the crumpled love note in his pocket,that she wanted nothing more than to recieve,the one he was sure she would never want.It turns to lint,
They speak of heresy and witchcraft  But create gods out of Men They make me the martyr And forget that to spill blood is still a sin. I am stoned for a word
What if the harmony of saints and sinners / Broke in moments o’er passing of bread? / Temporal and shallow, this generation envisage / Martyrdom, not white but red /
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