| Down to the south they migrate, I’m watching down below
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| Desire burning my heart, I cannot fly
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| I’m standing on the shore, birches are waiting naked
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| Heavenly broom of winter has swept their leaves
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| Nothing — left for me
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| Tones of grey — are all I can see
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| Eastern wind is tenderly fingering
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| My cheekbones
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| And on the lake
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| On the foam-crested waves
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| Grandfather frost
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| Is riding
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| So I’m going back to the Windlake
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| Into the eye of the harsh gale
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| Once and again to the Windlake
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| Forever she’s calling my name
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| I say farewell to summer, and winterize my boat
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| Onto the wooden horses, I put it up to rest
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| And to the draining water, I will turn my back
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| But along the icy cover, I will come back
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| Nothing — left for me
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| Tones of grey — are all I can see
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| My feet cold, my hands are stiffed
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| My snot and tears are taken up
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| Taken, taken up by the wind
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| The wind tells my tale — Windlake Tale
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| The wind tells my tale — Windlake Tale
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| Windlake Tale, Windlake Tale
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| So I’m going back to the Windlake
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| Into the eye of the harsh gale
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| Once and again to the Windlake
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| Forever she’s calling my name |