| Marie-Antoinette
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| Once there was a golden bird
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| a bird who lived in a silver cage.
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| I never saw the world outside.
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| I never knew the world of pain.
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| Dreams, which every hour
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| and every day bloom more beautiful,
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| and with their heavenly tidings
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| blissfully pervade my mind?
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| Dreams, which like sublime light
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| penetrate my soul
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| to paint there an eternal image:
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| forgetting all, remembering one!
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| Dreams, like the spring sun
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| kissing the flowers from the snow—
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| to a welcome of undreamed-of joys
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| from the new day,
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| To grow, to bloom,
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| to impart their scent as they dream,
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| fading softly at your breast
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| to then sink into the grave
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| I did not know, did not know!
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| I have to stay, Beaumarchais,
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| and I have to die.
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| For there was no peace,
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| I wandered, cold, bitter, empty,
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| until with your art and love you called me.
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| You taught me that acceptance is the only
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| road to freedom
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| and forgiveness sets our spirit free to fly.
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| Floating, rising, soaring,
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| delight, rapture, paradise!
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| Thank you for this moment of peace.
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| I suffered here in endless night.
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| And then you came and brought me light.
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| I love you. |