It's not me you see,
pieces of valentine
and just, a song of mine to keep
from burning history
seasons of gasoline and gold
Wise men fold.
Near a tree by a river there's a hole in the ground
Where an old man of Aran goes around and around.
And his mind is a beacon in the veil of the night.
For a strange kind of fashion there's a wrong and a right
But he'll never never fight over you.
I got time to kill, sly looks in corridors without
a plan of yours a blackbird sings on bluebird hill.
Thanks to the calling of the wild
wise men's child.
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