Look the herons in the greenbilled water
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Their wet-ash wings wear medalions of patience
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We drift on...
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We have stories as old as the great seas
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Break through the chest
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Flying out the mouth
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Noisy toungues that once were silenced
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All the oceans we contian, coming to light
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All the dark birds rush from the river
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Leaving only the stillness of their language
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There are no clocks to measure time
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But the beating of our single hearts
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You will know it is winter
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By the way your dreams tremble like stones
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When the wind comes through
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The wind, full of hearts that beat quick and strong
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Primal Breath
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At the Gates |