| You stand so far away
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| lake’s in the distance
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| top of bales of hay
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| breeze dream clouds thick and white
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| kite, wind against the bow
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| No matter how far we sail.
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| Bees, leaves, hives go fly with flies
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| in and out, petals and stems
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| stitches and hems, us’s and thems.
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| Collected by friends, and spread amongst the then,
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| while others seem to pretend that make believe
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| is when image left with men is painted with a pen,
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| and time’s left to Big Ben.
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| Hold back your thought,
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| among silence rhythms are taught,
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| the end of the line, a trout you have caught,
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| flipping and sticking to bits of hay,
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| slipping in skin, reflecting the day,
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| it’s only a picture, there’s not much to say. |