| This is a song about a rose
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| Or perhaps it’s a song about the shadow of a rose
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| In the morning the apple sellers congregate on corners of their own
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| But you and I we sing our song about a rose or perhaps the shadow of a rose
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| With the children of Fribourg and the good thief standing by
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| We consort in silent rendezvous and call the world a lie
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| When our song is but a candle that will one day burn away
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| The children of Fribourg cannot hear what we say
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| This is a song about a rose
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| Of lonely caravans whispering to God
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| To chain the world in prose
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| But people are not singers and life is not a song
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| And even God can only guess
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| Why or where or when or if
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| The answers all belong
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| And you and I we sing our song about a rose
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| Or perhaps the shadow of a rose |