In time
We’ll mend the ravines
Sew our gash by any means!
Here’s to the multitude, unfazed by tone
The wiser many, with greatness to hone

For the other is our own
Their likeness not shown
Its dwells at the edge of each deathly groan
It arises and blooms with each loving moan
And blossoms the same sorrow, with each broken bone

To the slew of all types
Unmoved by the banners of any stripe
They instead ponder the wilderness around and above
Flooded by promise, and the notion of love

For the other is our own
Their likeness not shown
Its dwells at the edge of each deathly groan
It arises and blooms with each loving moan
And blossoms the same sorrow, with each broken bone

Oh the blood, that mangles life
Torn from anguish and searing strife
Quietly we despair, behind its looming toll
Yet many disavow, our common roll

For the other is our own
Their likeness not shown
Its dwells at the edge of each deathly groan
It arises and blooms with each loving moan
And blossoms the same sorrow, with each broken bone