| If my hands weren’t there, like I saw in the stream
|
| Of the drawings been made on a full colour screen
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| If they weren’t to be found, then what else
|
| Could I be?
|
| If your hands weren’t there, like I saw in my dreams
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| And the poets we made, had all gone, disappeared
|
| Then what else, then what else
|
| Could I be?
|
| If your hands and my hands strolled together around
|
| If they were to make friends we’d be possibly up
|
| To escape from this world, from this no past land
|
| If I looked in the windows while walking pass through
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| If I stared at the willows with my seven black truths
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| If my eyes were to see what belongs to your mind…
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| If you’d like, keep perceiving what lies on my back
|
| And your eyes will shine through the glass of my wine
|
| And the windows, the willows, the pillows, and your mouth
|
| If your hands and my hands strolled together around
|
| If they were to make friends we’d be possibly up
|
| To escape from this world, from this no past land |