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Upon Charles Bridge he's frozen in a gesture, |
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looks like he's waiting for a moment to arrive, |
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some special currency to connect him to the zeitgeist... |
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snakes alive! |
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He's traipsed around the towns, the landmarks of Old Europe, |
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looking to link between the present and the past |
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and here at last he feels ghosts crowding in around him |
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for the photograph. |
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All that he wants to be |
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an image of mystery; |
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a backdrop, a profile, a choice location, |
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feeding his imagination. |
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Instead of memories to hold him in the game |
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he'd rather wrap time's frame around him. |
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No need for memories, they all feel much the same, |
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he'd rather stay in character. |
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A centre spread in a paper, |
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an unpicked thread in a magazine. |
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He's lost himself in being here so often. |
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Though life's got harder as the focus softened. |
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he's made his only purpose the pursuit |
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of posing for the perfect photograph. |
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Out of shot the light's bleeding |
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and time comes apart at the seams. |
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He'll disappear, it's nearly time, |
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the shutter's opening. |
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And now exposure's come, |
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chiaroscuro |
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and he's all transparency in the aperture, |
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gone to the ghosts. |
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They'll hold him close, |
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metamorphosed |
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in the perfect pose. |