Wouldn’t it be strange to see the whirling winds,
storm’s center pulled by the strings of the sun,
gathering all that is and all that was and will be,
moonshine is the mirror, the ghosts in your head,
you used to watch me well, my love,
you used to see the magic,

but now you see only faces and bodies,
hair flowing to the shoulders
and music pouring from your ears,
the great waterfall is slowly leaking
in hopes that another might listen to him,
echoes in the dark caves of the yester-years,
moon becoming the cheese of children,
and the stars who lie about their light,
that house of your stars is falling down,
yet you try to sing their music still,
tears too heavy to keep you
from the depths of the mud,
falling down,
London bridges.

So I’ve walked beneath them all,
for it was mine to walk there,
to learn the shelters from your dangers,
a life that’s only a moment of all lives,
and the more it breaks and bleeds,
the more the light shines through,
from the days when we’ve loved,
and from the days when I could dance,
and speak Italian of the romance,
Plato’s halls of resurrection,
I remember all of it that you forgot,
even the holy places of the earth:
we are here, my love, strings of fire,
isn’t it strange, that we’re still here
and you, musician, still can’t hear?

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