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Kevin Carter died a suicide |
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in Johannesburg in 1994 |
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We honored him for going in |
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and showing us the face of war |
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But he would not come out again |
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He was only thirty three |
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and hollow haunted were his eyes |
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In his hand a cigarette, |
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wasted worried can't forget |
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Smoking, weeping, cursing flies |
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Hail Mary, full of grace, |
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I cannot forget his face |
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And I didn't understand, oh I didn't understand |
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And I didn't see the blood on my own two hands |
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I didn't understand, oh I didn't understand |
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And I didn't see the blood on my own two hands |
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At a feeding camp for refugees, |
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he photographed a dying baby girl |
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A vulture stalked her patiently, |
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that picture told around the world |
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Of famine, war, and misery |
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And when his camera work was done, |
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he chased the vulture on its way |
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And he sat crying, lost and stunned, |
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in Africa on stony ground |
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Wondering who was the bird of prey |
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Hail Mary, full of grace, |
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I cannot forget his face |
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He was crying for the little child, crying for his friends |
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He was crying for the blood on his own two hands |
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He was crying for the little child, crying for his friends |
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He was crying for the blood on his own two hands |
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Kevin Carter died a suicide |
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in Johannesburg in 1994 |
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We honored him for going in |
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and showing us the face of war |
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But he would not come out again |
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The fascinating face of war |
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experienced from a distant shore |
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And each day curious for more |
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How does it look, what happened there |
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But the message took the messenger |
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Hail Mary, full of grace, |
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I cannot forget his face |
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And we'll never understand, oh we'll never understand |
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till we look and see the blood on our own two hands |
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And we'll never understand, oh we'll never understand |
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till we look and see the blood on our own two hands |