There is an anger comes off this girl, That she can't find an origin, The things I plant won't grow, Yet the wild weeds flower in wind and snow.
Nothing to be nothing to prove, Nowhere to go nothing to lose.
When will my season come, Was I born of infertile soil, Is my seed without song, Can I not see the woods for these forests in my head, Can I not see the sunlight as I play dead?
Nothing to be nothing to prove, Nowhere to go nothing to lose.
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