| There are days when sorrow seems never-ending
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| Like the countless roads upon which I’ve driven
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| The price of attachment in pursuit of dreams
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| That I so often can’t seem to remember
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| Yet there are days when beauty cannot be contained
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| It even crawls out from under ordinary things
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| A foreigner, no place to go
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| Holding on, making the most
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| Of what little time I have
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| All the wasted words I said
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| In all the cities that I left
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| The last act of our precious play
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| Must not close with regret
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| I will not leave wishing I had done things differently
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| The moments I treasure are seldom the ones
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| That I planned for
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| And if I knew where pain hid I might still let it go
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| So when the audience has run toward the latest drift
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| It will be my time to face the life that I have set
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| A foreigner in my own home
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| Holding on, no place to go
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| All the wasted words I said
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| In all the cities that I left
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| The last act of our precious play
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| Must not close with regret (regret)
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| All the wasted words
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| Some days the line between peace
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| And pain seems more like blur
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| But I know with certainty
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| I can’t leave wishing, I cannot leave
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| I can’t leave wishing I’d done things differently |