| Love was a promise made of smoke
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| In a frozen copse of trees
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| A bone cold and older than our bodies
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| Slowly floating in the sea
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| Every morning there were planes
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| The shiny blades of pagan angels in our father’s skies
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| Every evening I would watch her hold the pillow
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| Tight against her hollows, her unholy child
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| I was still a beggar shaking out my stolen coat
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| Among the angry cemetery leaves
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| When they caught the king beneath the borrowed car
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| Righteous, drunk, and fumbling for the royal keys
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| Love was a father’s flag and sung like a shank
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| In a cake on our leather boots
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| A beautiful feather floating down
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| To where the birds had shit on empty chapel pews
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| Every morning we found one more machine
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| To mock our ever waning patience at the well
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| Every evening she’d descend the mountain stealing socks
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| And singing something good where all the horses fell
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| Like a snake within the wilted garden wall
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| I’d hint to her every possibility
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| While with his gun the pagan angel rose to say
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| «My love is one made to break every bended knee» |