| A stick, a stone, it’s the end of the road
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| It’s the rest of a stump, it’s a little alone
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| It’s a sliver of glass, it is life, it’s the sun
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| It is night, it is death, it’s a trap, it’s a gun
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| The oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush
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| A knot in the wood, the song of a thrush
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| The wood of the wind, a cliff, a fall
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| A scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all
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| It’s the wind blowing free, it’s the end of the slope
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| It’s a beam it’s a void, it’s a hunch, it’s a hope
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| And the river bank talks of the waters of March
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| It’s the end of the strain
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| The joy in your heart
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| The foot, the ground, the flesh and the bone
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| The beat of the road, a slingshot’s stone
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| A fish, a flash, a silvery glow
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| A fight, a bet the fange of a bow
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| The bed of the well, the end of the line
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| The dismay in the face, it’s a loss, it’s a find
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| A spear, a spike, a point, a nail
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| A drip, a drop, the end of the tale
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| A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light
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| The sound of a shot in the dead of the night
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| A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump
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| It’s a boy, it’s a rhyme, it’s a cold, it’s the mumps
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| The plan of the house, the body in bed
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| And the car that got stuck, it’s the mud, it’s the mud
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| A float, a drift, a flight, a wing
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| A hawk, a quail, the promise of spring
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| And the river bank talks of the waters of March
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| It’s the promise of life, it’s the joy in your heart |