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Tiny Voices (Bad Religion)

The brown and orange sky holds its breath as the sun retreats to the distant horizon, and our hearts palpitate anxiously as we soon will lay supine, and wait for sleep to overcome us And from somewhere in our black, subconscious minds when we're asleep, comes a haunting swelling mass of voices, resonating, its screams of forgotten victims and the cries of innocence, and the desperate plea for recognition and recompense Tiny voices, echoes of our heritage, our long and sallow faces turn the other way, tiny voices, harbored deep within as we outwardly deny that they have something to say, and if we don't confront them they will never go away The billions of tiny pinhole embers fade into a morning sky filled with poignant morose wonder, waking, we bear a cosmetic peace that verifies the turmoil which we carry deep inside