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If I’m the sun, then people I love
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be vigilant—when the light on the mountains gives the sign—arise and go
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what would hold us
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Oh light worn thin
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… I became, / all over again, briefly silver, as in what the leaves
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in the background; from joy
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we have no new thing
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And I will play for you
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yet why write if not for
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I taught myself to make fireballs