| I could never build the ether, or the grass overgrown
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| I could never build the river with a mouth full of foam
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| Could never build the winter with her cold tears of glitter
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| I’ve been listening to the red oak, the acorn she cries
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| Listening to the white birch, the paper she dries
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| Listening to the frog’s joke, listening to the fire smoke
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| I could never tell you now what I had often said before
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| Because promise is a pendulum, just swinging at the door
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| And I’m not saying I’m not jealous, or scared anymore
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| I’m just saying
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| I could never make a rainbow, or any kind of flower
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| Could never make a sparrow, or a meteor shower
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| Could never build an earthworm, never make the earth turn
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| I’ve been listening to the laughing of the fox down the trail
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| Clasping to the listening of the moss to the snail
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| Ooo
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| The shimmer of the beech leaves, as the wind does a big sneeze
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| I could never tell you now, but I had often said before
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| Because promise is a pendulum, just hanging at the door
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| And I’m not saying I’m not jealous, or scared anymore
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| I’m just saying
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| I could never make the shadow between your cheek and your eye
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| Could never make a freckle or the warm breath you sigh
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| The canopy of lashes with the softness of ashes
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| I’ve been listening to the memory, the way that it was
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| Been listening to the echo of whys and because
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| Listening to the echo, telling me to let go
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| I could never tell you now, but I had often said before
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| Because promise is a pendulum, just swinging at the door
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| And I’m not saying I’m not jealous or scared anymore
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| I’m just saying |