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. |
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Finally the moment's |
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Come and here we stand |
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And all the words have gone |
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Along with all the plans |
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And though the hands |
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Are surely moving on the clock |
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For us, this moment |
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Time itself has stopped |
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Our early-morning eyes |
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Still feel a little sore |
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And bodies sweetly aching |
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From the night before |
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I can feel |
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The cold platform through my shoes |
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There must be someting to be said |
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But what's the use? |
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The wind picks up some paper |
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Blows it past our feet |
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We watch it grateful |
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That our eyes don't have to meet |
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A screaming whistle rips the air |
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And takes away |
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The last seconds we have shared |
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And still photographs |
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The train begins its run |
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And suddenly all the words |
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I should have said had come |
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Someone touches me |
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And asks me for a light |
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And wonders if |
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I'm feeling quite alright |
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And I say yes... |
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On another platform there's a train |
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The same old scene is to be shot again |
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The wind picks up some paper |
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And with it I shall ride |
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Out through the door marked exit |
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Into the world ouside |
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. |