| A line of strands to mark the trail
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| No one said it would be easy
|
| I must admit I thought the risk
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| Was better waged in younger seasons
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| And all these years in the cold play hell on the throat
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| 'Till everything I say burns like cinders
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| Well, it’s hard to belong to a girl or a song
|
| In the crease of a strangling winter
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| It’s strange to be lost, stranger still to belong
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| On the strings of a twisting line
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| Along the way the turns are sharp
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| No one said it would be easy
|
| I must admit, I thought the trip
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| Was better made in younger seasons
|
| But all these years in pursuit made a man of a fool
|
| 'Til every word I say is unwavered
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| Well, it’s hard to belong to a girl or a song
|
| In the case of a selfish believer
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| It’s strange to be lost, stranger still to belong
|
| On the strings of a twisting line
|
| Well it’s hard to belong to a girl or a song
|
| In the case of a selfish believer
|
| It’s strange to be lost, stranger still to belong
|
| On the strings of a twisting line
|
| And when the path I have made from the grass to the grave
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| I will love you still
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| And when the sand turns to glass and all that’s left is the past
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| I will love you still |