| In my garden I sit with half a smile
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| Amongst water whispers, beneath a sun dial
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| A gil in green with a golden mane
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| Our chance has gone and won’t come again
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| And no one sees what we see
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| And no one believes what we believe
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| And no one sees what we see
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| And no one believes what we believe
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| In my garden behinde Bastide walls
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| I will hide from the herd and their feral calls
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| Stained glass light bathes these stained hands
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| Fountains and statues — my only motherland
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| And no one sees what we see
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| And no one believes what we believe
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| And no one sees what we see
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| And no one believes what we believe
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| In my garden vine and moss
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| Wine and water and a golden cross
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| In my garden behind a bolted door
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| Woith our lady, and Balder an Thor
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| And no one sees what we see
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| And no one believes what we believe
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| And no one sees what we see
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| And no one believes what we believe
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| And no one sees what we see
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| And no one believes what we believe
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| And no one sees what we see
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| And no one believes what we believe
|
| And no one sees what we see
|
| And no one believes what we believe |
| And no one sees what we see
|
| And no one believes what we believe |