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World, the sadness is there; should we talk?
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We live like the one sequin
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Go quietly; a dream
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to go with grace
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what did they wish they could see, that they used to see;
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I know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as a crow
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—there is leftover gunpowder in this line
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blood to blood to blood, until we are carried
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that they might enter the eternal
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I send you John Coltrane,