| Drifter, what about her conversation?
|
| Drifter, how about an explanation?
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| Where you go when you receive?
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| And why you never let her feed?
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| On all that truth you hold so dear
|
| But never let another near
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| No one around
|
| My, don’t we love?
|
| No one around
|
| No, to the quiet gazes
|
| No, to the muttered phrases
|
| No, to the utter waste of
|
| Time and good fortune
|
| Taster of the poetry
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| Of Pater, Proust and Socrates
|
| What are you to do but sleep
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| When are you to stop and weep?
|
| For all your inability
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| To mate with your own memory
|
| No one around
|
| My, don’t we love?
|
| No one around
|
| No, to the mindless gazes
|
| No, to the splintered phrases
|
| No, to the utter waste of
|
| Time and good fortune
|
| Singer, will the singing say it?
|
| Singer, would such saying change it?
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| A whole long life spent tuning strings
|
| And will it now mean anything?
|
| But empty chords that only bring
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| An endless, voiceless sorrowing
|
| No one around
|
| My, don’t we love?
|
| No one around
|
| No, to the frightened gazes
|
| No, to the stuttered phrases
|
| No, to the utter waste of
|
| Time and good fortune
|
| Time and good fortune
|
| Time and good fortune |