I was never the blushing baby.
The hands of a rosy cheeked future,
were never there on the school bell ring.
Or my veins warmed in cold rooms,
by lucky blue velvet blood.
I have no snare drum heart of country,
a marching beat within my chest.
I am more than land and boundaries laid.
More and talk and family tales.
Death, is not my inheritance,
nor birth my heir.
On this estate dream turn to blood,
to call their own,
bare chested to liberty,
where battle lines are drawn.
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