| When you were a child,
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| you were a tomboy.
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| And your mother laughed at the serious way
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| that you looked at her.
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| And from your window at night
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| there were the star’s little fires
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| and the armory lights.
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| You were tracing the lines
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| of a globe with your fingers:
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| Cool rivers, white wastes,
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| desert shores, and the forest green.
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| And a limitless life,
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| in the breath of each tide.
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| And the bright mountain rising.
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| Now the boys are away,
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| and such kicks they are having;
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| Slashing away at this forest’s walls
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| with their bitter knives.
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| Sparks bloom in their eyes
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| and they never look tired.
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| Will they never look tired?
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| On cliffs that tower from the rising seas
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| their bonfires glow
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| where a tiger lies.
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| And, cleaning their weapons,
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| they laugh at his useless
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| claws, and all:
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| It is a beautiful night
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| to be born to this life.
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| And grind his every bone to powder!
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| Do you remember?
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| Do you remember?
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| She carried you down to the edge
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| of the dark river and said:
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| Though the water is wide,
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| you will never grow tired.
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| You are bound to your life
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| like a mother and child.
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| You will cling to your life
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| like a suckering vine.
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| And like the rest of your kind
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| you will increase, and increase,
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| past all of our dreaming.
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| Horse without rider.
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| Lungs without breathing.
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| Day without light.
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| Song without singing.
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| A song… |