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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bloom broke burning came cruel cry dark die flower heart joy left mark now rose see silver sweeping war

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