The winds of war came sweeping cruel,
The flower would not cry,
Oh, how it broke the freeman's heart,
To see the first rose die.
Some soldiers plucked the garden's joy, And left a burning mark,
Upon the silver petalled bloom,
Now fettered in he dark. (Bobby Sands)

The winds of war came sweeping cruel, The flower would not cry, Oh, how it broke the freeman's heart, To see the first rose die. Some soldiers plucked the garden's joy, And left a burning mark, Upon the silver petalled bloom, Now fettered in he dark.

Bobby Sands

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broke burning came cry dark die heart left mark now rose silver sweeping war

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