| Am I ever going to wake?
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| I’m still there on the switchback roads
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| Up and up in the still of the afternoon
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| Past trees and rocks and on up into the clouds
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| Swirling, drifting, hiding everything
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| Like the lies, like the lies I told you
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| And in the village square
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| Gathered before the feast, all eyes to the South
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| And suddenly the mist drew back and there it was
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| Strogoula — King of Mountains
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| Like the truth, immovable and all laid bare
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| I turned around and saw you
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| You were falling, falling, faster falling
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| Tumbling rivers, broken bridges, down through canyons
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| Falling, falling, rushing water, falling
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| You can’t choose who you love
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| No, no, no — you can’t choose who you love
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| But you should never be there silently denying your own heart
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| As you listen and the cock crows once, twice, three times
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| As the day breaks
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| So am I ever going to wake?
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| From the smiling faces around the screaming child
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| Who must be taught well and soon
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| That love is hard and cruel
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| And you only respect the things that you can’t break
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| For protection comes at a price that you must pay
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| And pay and pay and pay
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| And you can’t choose who you love.
|
| You can’t choose who you love
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| No explanation or reason can ever be enough
|
| But you should never be there silently denying your own heart
|
| As you listen and the cock crows once, twice, three times
|
| As the day breaks |