| When August winds are turning,
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| The fishing boats set out upon the sea,
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| I watch 'til they sail out of sight,
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| The winter follows soon,
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| I watch them drawn into the night,
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| Beneath the August moon.
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| No one knows I come here,
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| Some things I don’t share,
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| I can’t explain the reasons why,
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| It moves me close to tears,
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| Or something in the season’s change,
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| Will find me wandering here.
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| And in my public moments,
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| I hear the things I say but they’re not me,
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| Perhaps I’ll know before I die,
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| Admit that there’s a reason why,
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| I count the boats returning to the sea,
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| I count the boats returning to the sea.
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| And in my private moments,
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| I drop the mask that I’ve been forced to wear,
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| But no one knows this secret me,
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| Where albeit unconsciously,
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| I count the boats returning from the sea,
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| I count the boats returning from the sea. |