On The Odd Quality of Trumpets in the Mist

There should be the sound of trumpets, thin and mournful

As we emerge in mist and set off on our journey.

We’ll make song, laughter, and love seem normal.

 

It’s only a walk. We won’t be won’t be beaten and forlorn, so

We can rise up and never be brought to our knees.

There should be the sound of trumpets, thin and mournful.

 

We won’t be stopped, though we know we’re only mortal.

We’re made of stiff stock and can always foresee

That we’ll make song, laughter, and love seem normal.

 

Savagery is defeated by being kind and cordial,

But we’re fighting destruction of civil society.

There should be the sound of trumpets, thin and mournful.

 

The angels among us sing out with joy and hearts so full

Of love that we continue to believe in future with peace.

We’ll make song, laughter, and love seem normal.

 

The waters rise and smoke chokes our lungs, so

We raise our banners and fists as we march through the country.

There should be the sound of trumpets, thin and mournful.

We’ll make song, laughter, and love seem normal.

 

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