Lanterns in the Old North Tower
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We waited in the tower of the Old North Church. Hands raw from
climbin' the beams. The smell of dust and damp robe, heavy in the
air and Boston down below, quiet in the hold of the
crown. Soldiers moving through the streets like wolves on patrol. The people pretending
to sleep. Nobody trusting tomorrow. We were not heroes. Just cooper's sailors,
stable workers and sons of shop owners. Men without rank who worked long
hours to scrape through each week. But we listened, but we listened when the committees
whispered, when the tax men searched our trunks. When the soldiers
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