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what the ground holds will be silent now
and the earth scorched by the molten plough
and the trees bare in the valley and
all the streets clear
in the centralia
what the ground hides makes the breezes sour
and the blooms wilt as the roots devour
we'll be staying for our homes are here
ever drying
and the streets are clear
ever drying and the trees are bare
in the valley of the shadow
in the valley
of centralia
