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by Wraak

There is a place my heart longs for
Where the cares of this world are far behind
Oh, to land upon that distant shore
A home for the loving and kind

There is no coin or note found there
And the only debt is thanks
For metal and jewels they have no care
They have no need of banks

The call goes out to all around
Come, gather to the field
Pick the fruit that from trees abound
And reap the harvest yield

And the weavers and the sewers make
New garments for everyone
And the meat they cook, and the bread they bake
And they feast beneath the sun.

And celebrate, and dance, and share
Around the evening fire
And each unto the other declares
"You are, to me, most dear."

© Wraak 2011


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