| And you grow and with time it melts
 | 
| you are no longer a warrior or a straw dog
 | 
| and watch things change
 | 
| suspended by a thin thread:
 | 
| and music grows and meanwhile
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| hide a smile
 | 
| you don't say you cried,
 | 
| and learn to shrug
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| and to sell your skin dearly.
 | 
| And Lola goes to school tomorrow
 | 
| she walks and is alone
 | 
| and she looks at the evening
 | 
| and she thinks words of love
 | 
| and she writes a little new song
 | 
| and she writes a story that says:
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| "Tomorrow we will be happy"
 | 
| And you grow up and can't sleep
 | 
| so close your eyes and count the loves,
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| that maybe I'm not enough,
 | 
| that perhaps they are not the best;
 | 
| it's like you light a match
 | 
| inside a room that is night outside,
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| and see things from a distance,
 | 
| but without the shapes and colors ...
 | 
| And Lola calls you by name
 | 
| she waits for you every night and she is no longer alone
 | 
| and she looks at the clouds and the sea
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| she holds your hand and everything is fine:
 | 
| she knows silence and noise
 | 
| and she writes words of love ...
 | 
| The line of children does not sleep,
 | 
| of friends, of women, on the doing of the day
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| that keep the lights on
 | 
| to keep you from falling asleep;
 | 
| do not sleep but if it were true
 | 
| it would be only the greatest love ...
 | 
| the love you dream of. |