| When the moon brings the silver back down
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| Through the islands, the sky, and the branches
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| The end is always beginning
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| When the moon brings the silver back down
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| To the concert of wings in the clearing
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| Keep the choruses coming
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| When the moon brings the silver back down in the dirt there are worlds upon
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| words where we guess that the glimmers fumbling onto your side, cross the line
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| Cold in the veins, your hands in mine
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| When the moon brings the silver back down
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| As the tigers strike waves in the shadows
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| When the moon brings the silver back down beside on the streets where we speak
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| through machines
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| My mouth full of marbles, tumbling onto your side, cross the line
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| Cold in the veins, your hands in mine
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| I’ll take your side, cross the line
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| You take my side, cross the line
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| When the moon brings the silver back down
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| In the pasture where folks still sleep standing
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| We become what we’re seeing
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| When the moon brings the silver back down in the dirt there are worlds upon
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| words where we guess that the glimmers crashing down onto your side,
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| cross the line
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| Cold in the veins, hands in mine
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| I’ll take your side, cross the line
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| You take my side, cross the line |