| Amidst the rusted rails and worn out inns
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| Out through the wild grass; |
| a dress
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| There’s gold reflecting lives playing for your eyes
|
| You’d be damned if you were found
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| Before the sun, the ground
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| From the journey grows the need to see
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| Unwavering proof and seditious needs
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| It’s embroidered in our times
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| And glows in idle wine
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| The burning need to run
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| Toward the East, the West, the one
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| Within the pulsing cells of marigolds
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| As they relate themselves to the hills
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| They amplify the light and rest on through the night
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| So turn the pages, dear
|
| And stare excelsior
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| Swirling vultures how they radiate
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| Cast a darkness on the waves
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| Lets pray that they survive
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| Tie strings and make them kites
|
| As the train moves on through here
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| To the end and steering clear
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| Just hide your thoughts in the shadow of the moon
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| As it breaks upon the aging trees
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| The yearn for more dances through the leaves
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| Like a dead-beat faustian dream
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| So we tie our rope to a branch and with a snap!
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| There’s only one thing left to see |