The white lines are tracers for the facers of the aftermath
Positioned in the situation, lost in battles of love
Still yearning--not learning, unborn...unhatched
Yet, but wait! It's time to collide
To decide, if you will a purpose for the marchers in orange
And still a circus for the children in disguise
Throwing bones to the drug-sniffing dogs
Protecting what we've come to know as ours
For the colors we wear in our dreams
For the flags we fly in our films...

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