| When we touch the world
 | 
| And it falls away
 | 
| When we feel that we’re born
 | 
| Just to fall apart
 | 
| And our mother lies in state
 | 
| And the broken pitcher glistens
 | 
| And the snow is at the window
 | 
| Creating neither sign nor symbol
 | 
| And the earth covers earth
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| And the mud lies in pools
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| Where the sanddunes stretch unbroken
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| And the dry wind bends and sighs
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| And the geese are running harmless
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| And our desires are running wild
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| Then we’re looking at the smoke
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| That’s rising from the incense
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| Neither coming here nor going
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| Neither heaven here nor hell
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| Neither borning here nor birthing
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| Neither dying here nor death
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| And we’re wrapped inside our troubles
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| And we’re wrapped inside our pain
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| And wracked with fires with longing
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| And our eyes are blind with night
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| With our fingers clutching coins
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| And our thoughts burning with I
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| And our eyes cannot be sated
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| With the world and its nightmares
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| With the world and its dreams
 | 
| Though later they’ll be filled
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| With a small handful of dust
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| And the Gods appear on the altars
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| And we recognise their face
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| It’s a face that we have carved there
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| And it’s full of fear and longing
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| And promises and threats
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| But they neither stoop to conquer
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| Not do they stoop to praise
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| And the mines are void of diamonds
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| That we carry in our rags
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| Then all the world seems
 | 
| A sadness song
 | 
| And all the world seems
 | 
| A sadness song |