| When I was young I believed
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| There were two monkeys here
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| Living in the trees between my house and the sea
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| Someone told me once that was their home
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| But that their life was sad, because they were alone
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| No matter how high they were climbing up the trees
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| I observed them several times from my house here
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| They were never at the same place
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| For their eyes to meet
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| As if they’d lost the will to speak and hear
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| Their eyes always looking far toward the sea
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| Their mouths closed in fear of what they could see
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| Their wishes to meet disappearing with years
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| Someone says they just lived in fear
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| Someone told me my house is not there anymore
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| And the trees are now season tourist shops
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| I still think about the monkeys and their trees
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| I tried since then not to look far toward the sea
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| And so I missed my last change to look around
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| And all I’m left with is the memory of the sound
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| Of the sea and their voice in the mute summer sights
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| Dreaming of going up high enough
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| Maybe on a kite
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| No matter how high they were climbing up the trees
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| I observed them several times from my house here
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| They were never at the same place
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| For their eyes to meet
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| And then they lost the will to speak and hear
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| Their eyes always looking far toward the sea
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| Their mouths closed in fear
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| Of what they couldn’t see
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| The memory of them disappearing with years
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| Someone says they still meet every night at the pier |