| I close my eyes, and it all returns like the spinning of a potter’s wheel
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| Trying to stay ahead of morning as time came running with us
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| And she beat us to the finish as we ran through the fields
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| You were born in the city, and I didn’t recognize you
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| Your beauty unexpected like a flower in the concrete
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| Some gods far below in worlds undiscovered
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| Set you up to ruin temples to find me on the streets, yeah
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| I’m an alias of who I am a counterfeited fake
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| In the picture I am kneeling like a dying saint Jerome
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| Hurling rocks at the demons who tried to come too near
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| 'Till you came in and possessed me now I feel at home
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| I remember the time I walked for seven hours
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| And thought about the people I had known for so long
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| All the castles I had built out of fine and precious sand
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| 'Till you came in like the tide now I don’t care that they are gone
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| As we floated up the river I translated the verses
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| That were written on memorials to the ships that had sank
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| And I thought about the people that traded sinking for uncertainty
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| And drowned because of loneliness before they reached the banks
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| On a beach near Barcelona the young girls cry for Mary
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| And they bury earthen vessels in the rocks by the sea
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| I am sending out a bottle with a prayer upon the waves
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| That you’ll find inside my picture, and your memory will unfold me
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| We were talking about a trip that I had taken to the canyons
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| And you told me of a river that had cut through time
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| Leaving only the pictures of long dead sons and daughters
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| And you told that the paintings looked a lot like mine
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| I try and watch myself to see what I am saying
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| But my heart is on my collar, and I’m asking you to take it
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| I don’t want to go back to the way things were before
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| Before the dawn turns into morning I want you there to break it
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| And a thousand years from now when our names are just a memory
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| And poets have recorded what happened in the past
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| Lovers loving in the night will find our forms in constellations
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| Seekers seeking for salvation will find our stories in the stained glass
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| A boy in the city who has never seen the morning
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| As he’s running arm in arm with you through the fields
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| Will be caught unexpected by a flower in the concrete
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| It will all return again just like a potter’s wheel |