| When the last of the echoes fades,
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| when the cymbals and the strings have died away,
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| when I am left with just the ringing in my ears,
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| I take a breath and I settle down,
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| I try to count the things that really count,
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| to figure out what I’ve done with the last few years.
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| And after all the struggle and the strain,
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| and after all the loss for little gain,
|
| the harmonies have faded away,
|
| but the melody remains.
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| I grew up in the countryside
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| there I could have lived, and I could have died,
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| I could have had running water and security.
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| But I took a train up to London town,
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| lost my money and immersed myself in sound
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| in lame jobs, late nights, poor diets and poverty.
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| And after all the struggle and the strain,
|
| and after all the loss for little gain,
|
| the harmonies have faded away,
|
| but the melody remains. |