| A yellow bird, she sings
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| and dreams of things she’s never seen.
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| And the yellow bird, her wings
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| have never touched the spring rain.
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| Where does such a breezy melody
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| come from if she’s never seen the sky?
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| She says she was born with the seed of joy
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| and it blossoms from the inside
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| In this seed I find all I need
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| To write the music of my life
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| My feathered friend, your cage
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| must drive you to rage sometimes…
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| To think that you have aged
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| staring at nothing but beige walls
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| She says «you know, our lives
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| aren’t so different as you would believe.
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| All are in prisons of some kind,
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| tethered by the stories that we weave.»
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| I hear her song rising sweet and strong
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| and I’m lifted by the sound…
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| Living proof of a simple truth:
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| it’s in the mind where freedom’s found.
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| All we are is made of stardust and sky
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| We hold the whole world — The whole world inside.
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| A yellow bird, she sings
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| and dreams of things I’ve never seen.
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| And the yellow bird, her wings
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| have touched everything. |