| Though I stood on several mountains
|
| And slept between the fountains of your web
|
| Though I’m strangled and entangled
|
| And captured in the dangling of your threads
|
| There is nothing left but silence
|
| No call at all for violence
|
| Like a shadow on the run
|
| When I’ve seen the winds blow crazy
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| Watch lovers lost and lazy through the dawn
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| When I’ve broken you deserting
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| And spoken though the curtains of a song
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| There is nothing left but pictures
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| And time worn crazy mixtures
|
| From your gentle wandering ways
|
| I climbed up cathedral towers
|
| And listen to the hours tolling by
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| As we talked by glinting candles
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| In endless city ramblings of the sky
|
| There is nothing left but faces
|
| Empty shattered traces
|
| From your gentle wandering ways
|
| I stepped over many chasms
|
| And floundered in the fathoms of your wake
|
| Since I running through the spanning
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| Unused to all the fanning of your traits
|
| There is nothing left to be one
|
| In the pageants of the sun
|
| And your gentle wandering ways |