| The color of an afternoon just like when you were 5 years old
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| The moon over the ocean I’ve seen from a island evening
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| Progression that starts to lose it’s meaning
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| If we have spent most of a lifetime dreaming
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| Then dreaming is the state we shall keep
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| Stories of our solitude will sing themselves to sleep
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| And we will sing to everything the stories of where we have been
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| The history that’s coursing through our veins
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| No, nothing factual is written on a page
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| So surely and so steadily
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| A slowly moving cloud will whisper «I am but for hours born to last»
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| Your soggy soaking future is my foggy fading past
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| And so now if you want to wish upon me, wish upon me fast
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| Whatever can be held in your heart is surely yours to grasp
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| So you wish for a picture of all of the people you had the pleasure to know
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| Or a postcard from all of the places that you ever wanted to go
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| Saying «you are here now on this magical night»
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| The southern sky at sunset, well, it’s such a stunning sight
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| You can sleep safely and soundly and you are loved
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| And nothing ever does begin like nothing ever ends
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| Ask every atom in your body and they’ll surely tell you
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| «friend, I am old as time and older still»
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| And you are made of everything you love, you feel, or kill
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| I will outlive you, and forgive you, and be just a baby still |