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Each stray reminder of your home life |
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Is hung on the wind that pulls away from you |
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As the walls of the mountains in the cold light |
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Glow red in an echo of the flares on high |
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In the vault of the night |
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In the frost, in the branches, in the clotheslines |
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A fierce little wren is singing loud and high |
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And his eyes insisting on their own life |
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Gave legs to the lie |
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That there is world, and time |
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To grow old in its light |
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In the last of the embers of the twilight |
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The gunmetal air has come alive with birds |
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They burst from the clouds above the snow line |
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And bloom in the ashes of the old black sky |
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And go back to the night |