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Black keys from Rimbaud’s piano in the Alps struck hard,
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Here is the sky.
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What we call love is a safe place before
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I’m afraid I will find
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The clock ticks,
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My double, my Siamese heart, my whiskery
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The ancient gods changed men to things, but left them
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Always I see myself waving to myself,
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How beautiful they are, those shapes
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And the chandelier strides like a sixteen-pointer
