| Calling all olive branches and laid off doves
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| There is work to do before we say goodbye
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| But who can see them turning to the face of love
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| Though I hear them pleading with me, don’t let us die
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| As I sit I can see their troubled souls wander by
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| And I feel them leaning on my shoulder to cry
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| Oh, one more chance
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| Naked tree of winter seems to stand so proud
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| Lording the poor mortal as he goes
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| And the tears which well beneath his somber shroud
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| Will they fall with the shame of somebody who knows
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| He can never be like the thought of a rose
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| Whose beauty remains, even when the bloom goes
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| Oh, oh, one more chance
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| Or is it too late to change the ways we’re bound to go
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| Is it too late, there’s surely one of us must know
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| Is it too late to change the ways we’re bound to go
|
| Is it too late, there’s surely one of us must know
|
| Is it too late, there’s surely one of us must know
|
| Is it too late to change the ways we’re bound to go
|
| Is it too late, there’s surely one of us must know |