| It must have been coming on June in the year
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| When I passed down a street and I saw you sitting there
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| Alone in your yard in a beat-up folding plastic chair
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| Well the sun beat down but you found some shade
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| You were sitting all alone in a garden that you made
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| Where each blade of grass and soldier straight flower obeyed
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| And I looked at you but to my surprise
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| Across generations eyes me eyes
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| And I tried to understand
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| But your taut lips they never said hi
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| Was your mind trained on the living or the dead
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| On the long road behind or the short road ahead
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| Did you take some comfort in colors that don’t fade
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| Were you hiding from the sun in your little bit of shade
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| Did you trade the moment for eternity
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| Make permanence a friend, time an enemy
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| Were you killing time or savoring the hours
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| Seeking salvation in rows of plastic flowers
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| I couldn’t stop to ask I had somewhere to be
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| Had something to do, somebody else to see
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| Had seeds to sow that might finally set me free
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| So I went on home to my own little garden
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| All the fragile, vivid blooms that live for just a few hours
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| Took my son’s tiny hand and watched a perfect sun falling in a limitless sky
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| And I thought about my life and the passing of time
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| All the flowers I’d plant and the trees I might climb
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| In my own tiny yard if there were ever ever enough time. |