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The Weeks
The sound of wind through the pines, bare feet brushing through leaves, snapping sticks like the spines of the weak. When we started we were small and strong at heart, five southern souls damned to speak the truth. But with this responsibility comes pain and loss. And as the years passed our numbers grew smaller, and there were four. This did not stop these brave soldiers of thought, keepers of truth. They were older now and their soft footsteps through the forest had grown louder and stronger. Like the dust filled hoof beats of a thousand wild horses, they layer sound like musket fire, their melodies bend and twist like train-tracks. A music shaped from the calloused hands and wrinkled faces of their fathers. They have walked through the fire wide-eyed and crazy, and came out enlightened. You cannot stop these men, your armies can’t cease their hands, dampen this thunder, or silence their tongues. We have trudged through the muddy swamps to freedom. Our shoes are tattered and torn, but our feet are dry. As for our places in history, we will run naked through your streets before we sit decorated in your halls.
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