| Instead of praying, you said, "I'll think about it tomorrow."
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| With makeup from the station, like Scarlett O’Hara… Your painted face
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| And for a long time she floated like a shipwrecked man towards the shore of the morning
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| Sometimes silence can terrify a giant, when he let out a scream
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| You pushed another night away alone… Chekhov fell asleep in a blissful sleep
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| He doesn't even know that darkness played… Under the window
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| The wind practiced the cello. |
| Longing rocks indefinitely
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| Dawn carefully touched your forehead… Somewhere inside you, ice was burning
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| Princess, answer… I still have a pocket where cold fingers warm up
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| Send a message… Let me see that letter on the display once
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| I miss everything… I still keep the mold of your neck in damask
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| Princess, that's enough… We've been hostages of spite for two and a half years… what's the matter with you?
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| The tide of banality is sweeping your world like Atlantis
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| While sniffing the cinema, you need someone to make a gag
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| To write a sonnet on your neighbor's wall for your birthday
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| And with a gang of gypsies under your window, it's snowing?
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| I'm still drawing your profile on the pad
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| Redundant questions avoided by feint
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| I write your name in each stanza… Invisible ink
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| It stands under my Christmas tree until spring…
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| The only gift for you
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| There is always a fossil of your waist…
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| Petrified on my palm
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| Princess, come forward… some victories are won on the assault
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| Don't be stubborn. |
| I publicly admit that you are ingeniously sulking
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| It becomes dangerous… A cobweb is caught on major chords
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| Princess, that's enough… We've been hostages of spite for two and a half years…
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| Princess, that's enough… |